Fatal Harvest
by Sac-a-puce
Summary: Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding... Thanks for reading!
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Prologue  
  
The microfilms Steed had been sent to collect would soon be safely tucked in a safe at the ministry's lab, ready to be scrutinized and archived. Their transfer, a mundane courrier job on the surface, had hidden the real purpose of his trip. The ministry was anxious to confirm rumours that an East German officer had active in post-war intelligence since defected and reappeared in Zurich to leak classified documents and help colleagues defect to the highest-bidding foreign intelligence agencies.  
  
Steed remembered clearly meeting the edgy young man, two decades earlier. He was one of a few who, for reasons of their own, had played cat and mouse with their Allied counterparts, willing pawns in the hands of generals and politicans who were rushing to build a wall around their nation. These days the Cold War was not over, by a long shot, but old allegiances were shifting. A former agent bold enough to convert his experience into hard cash could threaten intelligence networks high and low across Europe.  
  
During the interminable train ride, Steed's subconscious mind had wandered whimsically, summoning faces and conversations from a distant past. He had tolerated the memories, even sifted through them warily in anticipation of the debriefing that would conclude his mission. All things considered, warding off sleep was infinitely preferable to sinking into the familiar maelstrom of nightmares that were easily triggered by dwelling on his shadowy post-war years.  
  
The flight across the channel had been uneventful. Inwardly cursing the cramped coach-class seat booked in order to avoid attracting attention, he allowed wrily that the discomfort would at least keep him awake. Thankfully, in the soft morning light of London the starkest memories lost their capacity to torment. His thoughts drifted effortlessly to Emma Peel, the lovely creature who had come to share his unconventional life over the last two years. Sadly, this had not been their kind of mission. Determined to let her know as soon as possible that he was safely back in town, Steed put in a call to Whitehall moments after clearing customs.  
  
"Good morning, Margaret. I'll be there in twenty minutes, give or take a few red lights. Tell Mother that I am bringing back family pictures, and let the kids know that I have a story for them."  
  
At Whitehall, the debriefing team greeted him almost on arrival. They ushered him into a small room, microphone and tape recorder ready, notebook in hand, eager to pick his brain for the smallest details surrounding the meeting. Steed closed his eyes briefly as he sat down to face the interrogation and mentally shrugged away the lingering ghosts. The cup of hot tea cradled in his strong, impeccably manicured hands felt oddly comforting. He raised it to his lips and, between sips, started answering streams of questions with a deliberate economy of words and feelings. 


	2. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
With a nod, the senior officer signalled the end of the debriefing session. "That covers it, Steed. You can thank us for helping keep your report short and sweet. I will get it typed right away and cross-check some of the names and dates. Drop by tomorrow for the follow-up."  
  
As Steed opened the door to his office, pleasurable visions of Mrs. Peel sprang into his mind. They were squashed instantly by a phone ring. He looked at it sourly and lifted the receiver. It was a call from the director's office.  
  
This better be good, thought Steed darkly as he put down the receiver and spun around. The halls were still quiet and Mother's office door was slightly ajar. The wheelchair was turned away from the desk as if to leave the visitor guessing that he was really expected. The invalid had heard Steed coming, though. With a slight wave of his hand he had summoned Rhonda, his ever discreet assistant. She stepped out of the shadow and leaned forward with a file.  
  
"You've been out of town a lot lately," muttered Mother, still looking out at the view from the office.  
  
Kind of you to notice. Despite the nagging fatigue, Steed held his tongue. Maintaining an unflappable façade to Mother's barbs generally kept the ordeal to a minimum. The director slowly turned around in a prickly attempt at civility.  
  
"Ms. Peel also appears to have been unusually busy. Hardly makes time for you between your trips. Is it too much to assume that you two are still talking?"  
  
Before Steed could protest, Mother wagged a crooked finger at Rhonda. The woman pushed a folder across his desk. The director creased his chins towards his senior agent. "Have a look at this. Government business involving a suspect research facility. From what I gather, the assignment calls for a blend of skills that should sound familiar."  
  
Steed's eyebrows rose slightly. Still standing up, he leaned to collect the folder and opened it to scan the first page. The opening lines of a typewritten memo on government letterhead left no doubt as to the meaning of Mother's words.  
  
"Actually, Mother, I was expecting a few days' leave," Steed countered smoothly, determined not to give up ground so easily.  
  
Mother leaned back and cocked his head at him. "Have a look at the file before wasting your breath, Steed. This reads like a fantasy conjured by a clutch of bureaucrats. It could take weeks to figure out what they really should ask from you. This means plenty of time to wine and dine during the preliminaries. And there is an adequate budget for research. Advise them and wait for ministerial approval before considering any actual field work."  
  
Mother's peace offering. With commendable self-control, Steed refrained from rolling his eyes. The humourless tone of his superior's voice was clearly signalling his intention to bring the meeting to a swift conclusion. "We presented the government, in the occurrence Stephen Warner, undersecretary for Domestic Affairs, with several candidates. He insisted on meeting your team. Be here, preferably with Mrs. Peel, tomorrow at nine thirty."  
  
Now, this was definitely new. A small alarm bell tolled distinctly in Steed's mind. "Isn't it rather irregular to introduce him openly to one of our associate, Sir?"  
  
Mother harrumphed. "Read the file, Steed. Warner is contacting us on the behalf of MI5. He has acted as liaison between our agencies before. Treat him as one of them. And keep me posted."  
  
One of them. As opposed to one of us. The distinction, though subtle, was significant. Signalling his understanding with a slight shrug, Steed turned around, file in hand. His stride lengthened as he walked back to his office. He opened a briefcase, threw in the folder and dialed a taxicab. As he stepped outdoors, he noticed that London was now wide awake, buzzing comfortingly with its daily business.  
  
The cab driver nodded at his instructions and Steed sat back on his seat, slightly dazed. The adrenaline that had driven him the last forty-eight hours had subsided and fatigue was quickly setting in. A few hours ago he had fully expected to enjoy a well-earned leave, perhaps take Mrs. Peel riding for a long week-end in the countryside. And now. A touch of depression threatened to settle over him.  
  
At his Mews flat, a lemony scent greeted him, sharp and pleasantly familiar, as he opened the door. His cleaning lady had just been around. He relaxed, unconsciously looking forward to find everything as he expected.  
  
His spirits much improved after a hot bath and a shave, Steed glanced scornfully at the cheaper suit that had helped him blend in the crowd during his trip. He dropped it unceremoniously in the laundry chute and turned away to peruse his wardrobe. A glance at the full-length mirror, as he tied a silk tie over a fresh shirt, confirmed the welcome feeling of finally stepping back into his own skin. A generous brandy in hand, he settled down on the sofa and leaned over to dial Mrs. Peel's number. Her business-like answering message came on. He held out, hoping that she might pick up. "Mrs. Peel, I am back in London. Are you, by any chance, free tonight?"  
  
Within seconds a familiar voice answered, vibrant with delight. "Steed! Around for a few days this time?"  
  
"Presumably, Mrs. Peel. In as much as Mother can be trusted in such matters."  
  
"Oh! Can she, now?" Emma Peel paused briefly before continuing apologetically. "Listen, Steed, I really have some reading to do for a briefing early tomorrow morning. But if you care to catch up on the crossword puzzles, perhaps you could join me for dinner at home and a quiet evening? "  
  
"Mrs. Peel, a cozy night in would suit me perfectly" assured Steed. "As long as you let me bring dessert."  
  
"See you around six, then."  
  
His mind now at ease about his evening plans, Steed finished his brandy. He opened the briefcase on the low table before him. A smile softened his features as he started to leaf leisurely through the file. Nothwithstanding the lousy timing, he was secretly flattered by the director's insistence. Mrs. Peel and he had certainly achieved an impressive tally over the last two years. Her scientific mind and broad culture were assets unmatched at the ministry. His choice of a new associate had turned out very well indeed.  
  
He left early, unconsciously soaking in the City's comforting hum. The leisurely walk was a welcome stretch to the muscles cramped by his recent travels. He wound his way to his favourite pastry shop where, as he considered the delectable array of sweets before him, his thoughts wandered back to Mother's sly comments. Government business could indeed be tiresome. Bureaucrats and their concern for appearances were usually at odds with the efficiency of the ministry's methods. But the chance to draw Emma Peel back to his side was an irresistible incentive. Almost unconsciously his natural optimism was taking over. From the shop's window his reflection smiled back impishly, warming up to thought of presenting her with a new challenge. 


	3. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
As she opened the door, Emma noted with amusement that her guest's idea of a quiet evening did not include casual attire. Ruthlessly well-groomed in one of his favourite suit, Steed was waiting, a handsomely lettered cardboard box tied up with gold string in one hand and a bottle of one of their favourite French wines in the other.  
  
"Dessert, as promised", he announced genially as he took a step inside.  
  
His pale grey eyes swept her up. His gaze was disconcertingly intense, at odds with the voice, warm and insouciant. The overall effect was a perfect counterpoint to the delicious mix of expectation and relief that his reappearance never failed to stir in her.  
  
As soon as she took the box from him, his free hand slid around her waist and drew her closer for a first kiss. He had been burning for this moment, doubtlessly from having savoured it many times in anticipation. Her onw free hand reached up round the back of his neck, eager to respond. Without breaking the kiss he gently kicked the door shut behind them and moved with her towards the couch of her living room. They sat down, laying his offerings at their feet in unisson.  
  
His hands were already over her, grateful and lusty. Food and drink would wait.  
  
A "quiet" evening at home with Steed just back from the field, thought Emma with a soft, throaty chuckle, is definitely an understatement.  
  
His mouth moved from hers to her neck and lower still, where he found and nuzzled one of her nipples through the sheer blouse. She buried her nose in his soft, thick hair and ran her own hands lightly down his sides, mindful of any new bruise or wound that she might come across. Her gentle wariness did not escape him. He drew back slightly and saw in her deep brown eyes the hint of concern she could not quite suppress.  
  
"I am fine, Mrs. Peel", he assured her. His strong hand traced delicately the outline of her jaw as he added in a low, throaty voice. "And I might add that you are finer, even, than when I left."  
  
"Flattery alone" she said, wrily, eager to distract him from her fleeting show of anxiety, "will not get you dinner, Steed."  
  
His eyes lit up and he flashed her a leering smile. "Shall I earn it instead by proving my fitness, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
-o0o-  
  
The edge of their desire now blunted, they were lying side by side on her bed. Emma's thoughts were turning to dinner when Steed stirred anew against her back. Steed was nibbling playfully at her ear when his mind wandered back to Mother's request.  
  
"I nearly forgot something" he said languidly She felt him turn over and reach behind him for his jacket, neatly folded on a nearby chair.  
  
He pulled a small box from a pocket and handed it out to Emma. She kissed his broad chest lightly and cast an amused glance at her dresser across the room, where a collection of trinkets had been growing steadily over the last year. Steed might not be able tell her where he had been or on what business, but he had taken to bringing her back small gifts from his travels. A way to let her know that she had been in his thoughts, something he could not always bring himself to say simply.  
  
Turning over, she propped herself on her elbows to better examine the wooden box. Its lid lifted to reveal a small cuckoo clock cradled in layers of paper.  
  
"Won't you wind it up?" whispered Steed, his hand wandering teasingly up and down along her spine. The delicate mechanism in the clock came to life. A tiny door opened. The bird was holding a banner which unrolled as he glided forward with a bright chirp. She deciphered the message printed in flowery script: "Mrs. Peel, you're needed". Her brows shot up.  
  
"Aren't you overdue for a leave, Steed?" she asked pointedly.  
  
"Mother's idea of a leave" Steed corrected her. "He sprang a new case on me, right out of the debriefing room. To hear him talk, it is an assignment tailored for us."  
  
"It will have to wait," she said firmly, "until tomorrow evening, at the very least. I really must review my notes for a morning briefing." With a faraway look, she added "I am starting to have visions. a juicy, tender roast of lamb ready to be warmed up, new potatotes eager to be steamed, and a freshly tossed arugula salad."  
  
Steed was already getting up and dressing himself. He leaned over and kissed her forehead lightly. "I believe, Ms. Peel, that I can find my way again in your kitchen. Feel free to start poring over your notes. If you finish early, we can team up and crack one of those devilish crossword puzzles."  
  
Emma returned to her secretary where her notes were neatly spread out. The tempting aroma of food soon distracted her. She strode back towards the dining area where Steed was finishing laying out plates and silverware on the table. He poured wine in two crystal goblets and offered her one, raising it to her health.  
  
"To the imminent conclusion of your assignment, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
Emma nodded with feeling. "I'll drink to that. We completed our last two site visits only last week. We submit our individual reports tomorrow. Only one more meeting left after this one, where we will review the summary and offer our recommendations."  
  
"No regrets?"  
  
She shook her head. "None, really. It is not your brand of research, but it was fascinating in its own right."  
  
"I hate to concede it, but your talents would have gone to waste had you not accepted the task, Mrs. Peel. The diabolical masterminds you are so adept at defeating have been on hiatus lately. Mother kept me on the straight and narrow."  
  
"Just as well," she flashed him a smoldering glance. "I am ready for a change, though."  
  
Steed arched a roguish eyebrow and his smiled broadened. "Really, Mrs. Peel? This is precisely the state of mind that Mother was hoping for." 


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Steed was not a naturally early riser but even he readily admitted that her bed lost much of its appeal without Emma in it. His associate had firmly brought to a close their delightful reunion by retreating strategically to the bathroom at six thirty. The gurgling sounds of a shower followed by the humming of her hair dryer made it clear she was getting ready to leave.  
  
By the time he appeared in her kitchen, Steed was fully dressed and Emma was finishing breakfast. As she was rising from her chair, Steed captured her for a kiss that threatened to bring them back under the pleasurable spell of the last hours. Emma gently disengaged herself and smirked knowingly at his pretense of wounded pride. Gracious in defeat, Steed reached for his bowler and tipped it at her from her doorstep.  
  
"Dazzle them with your report, Mrs. Peel. And remember that if you happen to be free for lunch, I will be glad to join you. Perhaps even to fill you in on the details of my morning's meeting regarding this mysterious research facility."  
  
"And who are you meeting, exactly, Steed?"  
  
"The Under-Secretary of State from the Ministry of Technology wishes to handle the matter directly. Have you ever met him?"  
  
She shook her head. "I was almost certainly introduced to him but we never really spoke."  
  
"According to Mother, he picked you out of our line-up for your unusual qualifications."  
  
His self-satisfied smile made her wince. Steed had not yet tired of congratulating himself on drafting her as his associate. She opened the door of her Lotus Elan and waved at him.  
  
"I might be able to do lunch. That is, if I do not get a better offer."  
  
The smile he flashed back made her feel as if she had thrown a stick at an eager puppy.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Steed reached his office half an hour before the scheduled meeting. He cheerfully answered Mother's call when it rang, minutes before the appointment.  
  
"Mrs. Peel has not arrived yet?"  
  
"Government business is keeping her away from Whitehall this morning, Sir. Improbable as it may sound, she trusted me to break the ice. She may meet me for lunch to go over the case."  
  
"Make it a threesome, will you? I would rather this fellow find out as soon as possible who he will be dealing with."  
  
-o0o-  
  
The undersecretary extended a hand. "Jeffrey Warner, from the Domestic Affairs Office. Mr. Steed, I presume?"  
  
The handshake was firm, the tone affable. Steed returned the greeting in kind and surveyed him with serene courtesy. "It's just Steed around here, Mr. Warner."  
  
"Steed it is, then. Isn't Mrs. Peel joining us?"  
  
Steed smiled as he arched an eyebrow. "She will, over lunch, if all goes well. You understand, naturally, that Mrs. Peel is an associate, not a full- time agent."  
  
"So I hear. She brings an interesting background to your department, it would appear."  
  
"Quite. She is currently serving on a blue-ribbon panel reviewing the national priorities for the next round of public funding of national strategic research initiatives. Her team just completed the site visits of a string of research centers. They are submitting reports this morning."  
  
"Well, her absence is a disappointment but your description fits the profile that convinced us to seek her out."  
  
Warner pointed out the open folder on Steed's uncluttered desk. He recognized the official government letterhead on the memo he had signed two weeks ago. "Not to suggest that you would be wasting my time Steed but I assume that you have read the file. Is there much point in going over any of it without your associate?"  
  
"Perhaps. My superior warned me about serious flaws in the plan suggested by your department. In fact, we are not to undertake any field work until they are addressed. All the more so if an associate such as Mrs. Peel is to be involved."  
  
Warner smiled weakly. "What is the old saying about committee work? Seriously though, I understand your concerns. The plan you read was a rough draft prepared at the minister's request. In order for me to approach an intelligence team, he had to see some outline of a plan on paper."  
  
"Sort of a bureaucratic cloak-and-dagger fantasy then?"  
  
Warner shrugged. "Do not dismiss it entirely, Steed. It reflects rather fairly the type of action that the minister is ready to endorse. The only certainty from my end, at this point, is the specialized nature of skills I have been mandated to seek from your agency."  
  
Steed nodded as he reached for the phone. "In that case, let us make sure that Mrs. Peel will join me in asking you to share lunch." 


	5. Chapter 4

FATAL HARVEST  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
Feedback so far: Thanks for the kind words and the helpful advice. The earlier chapters have been reformatted accordingly. I am not as prolific as our amazing Mia but there is more to come.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 4  
  
As Steed had hoped, Emma was still at the headquarters of the Research Council. The message was passed minutes before the meeting came to an end. His phone soon rang back.  
  
"Steed? Of course."  
  
"Mrs. Peel, I know you were holding out for a better offer but.."  
  
"How did your meeting go?"  
  
"Very short, once we established that we had both read the same file. Truth be said, my morning's guest wants very much to meet you over lunch and present the case himself", finished Steed.  
  
There was an audible snort at the end of the line. "Let me get this right, Steed. You did not convince him that he was speaking to the master spy himself?"  
  
"Mrs. Peel..." drawled Steed, patiently.  
  
"One more thing, then. Does this mean I get to pick the restaurant?"  
  
"Yes, Mrs. Peel, I suppose you do."  
  
"In that case, meet me at Dell'Orio. In twenty minutes."  
  
Jeffrey Warner had been within listening distance. He nodded in sympathy as Steed hung up and the two men exchanged a small smile. All annoyance gone Warner realized that he was suddenly looking very much forward to lunch.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Emma had called ahead to request a table that would offer them some privacy. Warner was making small talk outside the restaurant with Steed when she joined them. After a brisk exchange of greetings, she led them inside and to the front of the line. The maître d' recognized her and promptly sat them upstairs to a table in a quiet corner overlooking the brightly lit, greenery-filled atrium.  
  
As they buttered their rolls, Warner started to lay out the basic facts of the case for Emma's benefit.  
  
"ExpeFarmax bills itself as an aggressive contender in the growing field of biotechnology. Over the last eighteen months it filed a string of patents related to genetic engineering techniques. Its recent work has been largely funded by a grant from the Biological Science Research Council, awarded through a special program targeted to foster the competitiveness of British agriculture."  
  
While Warner paused to bite into a roll, Steed pulled from his folder a glossy promotional brochure and slid it towards Emma. A bright company logo floating over a photograph of green fields was framed by a flattering description of the firm's expertise and the credentials of his research staff. Warner nodded, swept a few crumbs off the table and pursued his exposé.  
  
"Eighteen months into the grant, government inspectors reported that they were not given the full access to the facilities described in the original application. An investigator hired to look into the matter soon discovered that the firm had started paying private landowners for participating in trials, a use of funds that was never authorized by the granting agency. He also noticed that they were losing agronomers at a rather alarming rate."  
  
"Disgruntled employees?"  
  
"We never got a chance to ask them. Four of them had died over the least 18 months, apparently from unrelated causes: food poisoning, farm machinery accident, car crash, heart attack. The matter is in Scotland Yard's lap as we speak."  
  
Warner was directing his attention entirely at Emma. Steed was eating, discreetly attentive but uncharacteristically silent. Yet Emma was subtly aware that, underneath his veneer of nonchalance, her partner was more than a little anxious to hear her first words.  
  
"Intriguing, indeed" she said, neutrally. "So the Yard is investigating four deaths. And anyone of the British Research Councils has the authority to suspend the grant on account of a lack of disclosure. Where do we come in, then?"  
  
Warner was carefully weighing his words. "The Research Council is not ready to suspend the grant just yet. You see, severing its relationship with Expefarmax at this stage would leave us entirely in the dark about the real goals of the company."  
  
The small man leaned forward. "The agronomists who died had all been running unauthorized field tests on private lands. Rather troubling coincidence in our opinion. The modification of crops by direct genetic modification is still in its infancy, Mrs. Peel. This company could be developing brand new technology or using research as a cover for less savoury activities. When we started enquiring about relevant expertise, your name stood out immediately among the slate proposed by the ministry. Your track record with John Steed is, to say the least, eloquent. You understand the implications of this type of research, and can assimilate its principles quicker than any other agent in service. As a team, you and Steed are uniquely qualified to handle equally the scientific and security aspects of this case."  
  
Steed interrupted with deceptive mildness. "The request addressed to the ministry indicates that you expect us to exercise an unusual degree of restraint during the investigation."  
  
Warner sat back and coughed nervously before answering. "Naturally, the minister wishes to avoid bodily harm or destruction of property. Unless, of course, someone is caught in the act of a blatantly criminal act. We have, after all, little to go on. This type of research is at the very cutting edge of agribusiness. A wrongful accusation could seriously harm British interests on international markets."  
  
Regaining his composure, he pursued cautiously. "We thought that you, Steed, might contact Expefarmax as an affluent landowner who had hired Mrs. Peel to help improve the crop yields of his fields."  
  
His reserve dissipating, Warner was visibly warming up to his topic. Emma suddenly wondered how many hours he had spent fantasizing about directing them.  
  
Warned turned towards Steed, encouragingly. "When we read about your interest in polo and horsebreeding, we figured that you might express an interest in high-performance horsefeed. Barley, in fact, is one of the crop being tampered with".  
  
"Barley, indeed?" said Steed with more than a touch of irony. "Stuff of some of the noblest spirits known to mankind." He stretched his long frame in his chair and, raising his glass to Warner and Mrs. Peel, added darkly "Obviously, this is no idle threat."  
  
"Naturally, if you cannot get yourself invited, you will have to penetrate the installations covertly" pursued Warner, undeterred.  
  
"I remember reading that part", countered Steed suavely. "As a matter of fact, it struck me as rather odd. Tell me, Warner", he added with deceptive mildness, "why would a self-respecting spy signal his interest in someone's business before trying to sneak through his back door?"  
  
Steed held Warner's blank stare for a moment. Between them, and despite his innocent tone, the words hung like a warning. Before Warner could speak, Steed's pale grey eyes had turned inscrutable once more. "But let's not trifle with details. Warner, my good man, you have given us the bare bones of the case. Shall we get now to the crux of the matter? Namely, why should Mrs. Peel agree to lend us a hand?"  
  
Steed nodded in Emma's direction but his gaze stayed firmly locked on Warner's. "Her ties to a major aerospace firm involved in national defence contracts, makes her and hundreds of employees terribly vulnerable to any leak of her involvement in such an operation. Her recent service in a government's review of strategic technologies would only magnify the scandal."  
  
Warner's throat seemed to constrict slightly but he held his ground. "I, we, are aware of Mrs. Knight's special status inside and outside the ministry, Mr. Steed. The fact remains, though, that your team is a unique fit to this assignment. The minister realizes that it must endeavour to shield Knight Industries from any potential fallout. I can assure you that this is understood at the highest level of government."  
  
Emma sat back, watching the exchange with mild amusement. The reputation of her company was not something she took lightly. She also knew that the ministry had the experience and resources to keep its operations out of the public eye. At other times she might have bristled at Steed's show of protectiveness but today she grasped his deeper, gentlemanly intent. Last night, she had not been ready to pledge her help with the case. Now her partner was graciously handing her the opportunity to walk away from it. Making it quite clear that the presence of Warner should not be construed as pressure, be it from Mother or from the Prime Minister. And yet, she thought, I know that he is itching at the prospect of teaming up again!  
  
Her recent visits to centers of scientific excellence had acquainted her with the top British research groups pushing back the cutting edge of genetic manipulation. The discovery of DNA's structure, followed by the recent realization that enzymes could be used to manipulate it, were opening dizzying prospects for the future of biological sciences. The prospect of delving deeper in this world, even undercover, definitely appealed to her inquisitive mind. Funny to think that Steed had chosen not to play that card himself. Last night's small gesture, his tiny whimsical gift, had told her a plain truth: what truly mattered to him was the opportunity to work again with her.  
  
Arching an eyebrow, Emma turned towards him. "Really, wouldn't it suit you to a tee, Steed? Put our life on the line for the future of British single malts and polo racing?"  
  
Taken aback by the playful note of sarcasm, Warner glanced uncertainly at them both. Meaningfully Steed's pale grey eyes locked on her partner's. She saw no hint of alarm in his gaze, only the familiar glint of wry humour. Her own reaction, a deliciously familiar twinge of anticipation, confirmed her intuition. She leaned slightly towards their interlocutor.  
  
"Mr. Warner, your plan clearly requires further discussion. My immediate concern, however, is the timing of this assignment."  
  
She swept them both in her most business-like look. "In your opinion, gentlemen, can we wrap this up in time for the Royal Air Force show of mid August? Knight Industries is a major sponsor this year. It would be quite embarrassing to explain my absence to the board."  
  
The familiar banter was music to Steed's ears. The air show was a full three months away. Plenty of time to plan around it, quite possibly solve the case. Relaxing imperceptibly, he straightened up in his chair and serenely addressed the undersecretary. "Warner, dear chap, it would appear that we are in your hands." 


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
Author's note: An allusion to Mia McCroskey's wonderful Two's Company.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 5  
  
After lunch, Steed drove Warner back to Whitehall. Somewhat distractedly, Emma followed the Bentley in her sporty Lotus Elan. Whether Steed enjoyed simply showing off his antique car or was wickedly keeping Warner away from her, she was grateful for the respite. She picked up from the under- secretary her own copy of the case file. Steed courteously saw him off to a taxi while she curled up in the chair across from his desk to leaf through it.  
  
She heard the footsteps as he came back, the click of the door closed gently behind her. When he leaned over her shoulder, his breath on her neck tickled her pleasantly. The printed words danced in front of her eyes. How she had missed the feel of his body against hers.  
  
"What did you think of him, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
Startled out of her sensuous musings, Emma looked up from the documents. "Warner? He sounded a bit out of his depth.Not too surprising coming from a civil servant, is it?"  
  
The glimmer in Steed's pale gray eyes did not escape her. She swiveled smoothly on the chair to face him.  
  
"I know that look, Steed" she said warningly. "What did I miss?"  
  
He moved nimbly around the chair and leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed on his broad chest. She watched in fascination as he looked at her, at once absorbed and somehow remote.  
  
Sharing information on a "need-to-know" basis was a golden rule in intelligence work and this principle was second nature to Steed himself. But the rule was cut and dry only in cases where Mrs. Peel was not involved. Information pertinent to any of their cases was shared, simply, as a matter of trust. For one thing, the bond between Emma and him had grown so strong that the senior agent wondered at times what he could really keep from his associate. Regardless of their mutual empathy during a case, trust was priceless in its own right; it defined their very relationship.  
  
Only once had Steed made the grievous mistake of partly leaving out Emma of planning a covert operation in which she had, nevertheless, played a crucial role. He suppressed a barely perceptible shudder at the mere thought of it. His decision had nearly cost him his life and, perhaps worse, had almost brought their relationship to a bitter end. And so Steed knew, without a doubt, that he would eventually inform her of Warner's status. To his credit, then man's mild manner and somewhat bumbling earnestness was an ideal cover for his role as MI5's eyes and ears within the Department of Technology. For now, though, Steed preferred to address the issue obliquely.  
  
"Mother told me plainly that all we are expected to know is in the file. In not so many words, the wily old fox was suggesting that some crucial facts might have been left out."  
  
Emma frowned. "If Mother suspects that information was deliberately left out, then someone else must be pulling the strings on this case."  
  
Her partner's eyes narrowed, admiringly. Touché!" she thought.  
  
"A potentially uncomfortable situation, isn't it?" Steed wanted very much to let her know that her intuition was correct. Yet he artfully dodged her implicit question as he continued. "Now, something else rubbed me the wrong way even before meeting Warner. Was there anything about his presentation of the case that struck you as, shall we say, contrived?"  
  
"Well, I found out the last few weeks how fiercely these top research institutes compete for government research funds. Rather odd, I would think, that a firm would violate so openly an agreement for such coveted research funding and its free publicity."  
  
Steed helpfully finished the sentence ". unless they sought deliberately to draw attention to themselves?"  
  
"Could Experfarmax simply trying to discredit someone highly placed at the Research Council or embarrass the government?" suggested Emma.  
  
Steed stroked his chin. "Four murders seems like a high cost for mere blackmail, Mrs. Peel. But drawing attention to itself in this manner definitely hints at a powerful motive."  
  
Emma stretched in her chair, endearingly cat-like. "Closer to us, though, why should Warner overlook the obvious? And where does this leave us?"  
  
Plenty of time to deal with Warner, Steed thought once more. He smiled wrily at her. "We take Mother's generous advice which, I kid you not, is to wine and dine and go easy on field work lest we fall into some trap. We focus first on fact checking, next on fact finding. With utmost discretion, naturally, while keeping Warner happy by preparing assiduously for the part he wishes us to play."  
  
"Understood". Emma rose from the chair to meet him.  
  
Steed was quietly confident that he would know when to let her in on the uneasy relationship between MI5 and the ministry. Still, he caught himself gazing almost warily into his partner's lovely brown eyes. At the moment, though, Emma had no time for doubt. Her gaze was bold and hungry, inviting and challenging at once. Wondrously, Steed thought, they were a team again.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Within a couple of weeks Emma absorbed almost effortlessly the substance of the copious technical documentation that an expert had prepared and delivered for her to pick up at Whitehall. She followed this up with several meetings over lunches during which she peppered the specialist with questions. Steed joined in docilely. With silent but unfeigned admiration, he watched her interest grow as she delved deeper into the topic.  
  
As for himself, wasting time with stacks of horsefeed and industrial farming literature was definitely out of the question. Steed was the consummate professional when it came to preparing any incursion in new territory or his intended routes of escape. He was equally known throughout the ministry for his impatience with most other details that could surround a case. Far more profitable and in keeping with his character, he felt, to identify and invite to dinner some competent practitioners in the field.  
  
In defense of his unorthodox preparation methods, Steed always insisted that background information gained person to person provided him with far more useful insights than reading dry facts from reports. Over the years, Emma's recent contribution nothwithstanding, he had insistently credited his highly personal brand of research for an impressive tally of successful cases. In time, his persistence had earned him enviable budgetary latitude. Some of his reports had circulated longer than necessary among the secretarial pool for their tersely memorable descriptions of his eclectic expenses.  
  
On Steed's instructions, a list of horsefeed producers and their sales representatives was narrowed down to four names who were contacted for appointments. He duly took each one out to a horsebreeding farm to discuss potential business.  
  
"Pretty tedious business, Mrs. Peel" he commented laconically, after each one of the first three interviews. He showed far more interest in the fourth one, who turned out to be a vivacious, talented female graduate in agronomy climbing up the ranks of the family business. Her name was Allison McKay.  
  
By mid-morning the next day, his gleaming Bentley swung to the kerb of Primrose Circle. Steed vaulted above the door and, in a few strides, reached and rapped at the door of Emma Peel's apartment. She greeted him with the slightly mocking smile he had fully expected. Had he not smugly announced, yesterday morning, that he would be tied up with research that day?  
  
Emma Peel leaned by the door frame, arms crossed. "Ah, Steed. I wondered when you might show up. Productive interview?..."  
  
"Highly educational, with a most capable specialist of the horsefeed trade" he smiled guilelessly. "A tough bargainer, too. I had to promise dinner and dancing in London to get her to add me to her roster of customers." 


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure. Author's note: Field work might not be an immediate concern, but one should always prepare for the worst outcome. Don't worry. I won't go overboard with futuristic technology. We are still in the late 60s. FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 6  
  
Later that week, Emma drove Steed to an anonymous warehouse. They were greeted, military-style, by a guard who checked Steed's credentials and admitted them inside. A gruff mechanics clad in overalls folded his newspaper and came to meet them.  
  
"Steed! I cannot believe you left the Bentley behind. Finally realized you should trade in the old wreck?"  
  
"Just looking for a loaner, Gulch. Show me the latest for mowing down villains and delivering them to the authorities in neat little bales."  
  
With a long-suffering glance Robert Gulch turned towards Emma Peel. "I rounded up the array of hardware that your customer would likely be using. Mostly German and American models. They are copied the world over, so there was little point in looking beyond those."  
  
Steed was already poking at gigantic tyres with his umbrella. Gulch caught up to him in a few easy strides.  
  
"Far worse injuries arise from using farm machinery than from reckless polo playing, Steed." The wiry man turned around to face them both and gave them a quick rundown of the monstrous tillers, tractors and crop bundlers in the cavernous hangar. "Any one of these could crush you like twigs. You two spend as much time as you wish tinkering with the real things. I will stick around for your questions."  
  
Under Gulch's watchful eyes, Steed and Mrs. Peel examined the control panels and the wiring of a wide assortment of vehicles. Dwarfed by most of them, they climbed up into a dozen cabins to fire up the lumbering beasts, listen to their innards and drive a few of them around.  
  
Emma looked at Steed, frowning. "It would be child's play to modify any one of these in order to accommodate weapons."  
  
Steed winced in reply. "Probably a superfluous refinement, Mrs. Peel. I gather that industrial farming already relies generously on chemical warfare."  
  
Later in the day, Steed sighed as he folded back his long frame in the Elan's front passenger seat.  
  
"Say what you will, Mrs. Peel, but my venerable Bentley is a delicate jewel next to any one of these behemoths" He braced himself resignedly for the spirited ride home that Emma would surely give him, elated to find herself again behind the wheel of her sporty car.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Steed's second meeting with Miss MacKay took place in London, over a bottle of chianti at Bertorelli. Inimitably aware and confident of his influence on the opposite sex, Steed showered his guest with attentions. Miss MacKay soon made it clear that she remembered every detail of the brisk sketch of his land ownership. Steed congratulated himself on having run through it three times already during his first round of interviews. She asked him to elaborate his vision for the future of his property.  
  
"I am probably of the old school" shrugged Steed, self deprecatingly. "Keeping farming on a small scale, and as natural as possible. What the big industry is moving towards seems more like, well, raping the land."  
  
"Raping?" Miss Mackay's eyebrows rose mischievously at his choice of word.  
  
"That's what I read. Nothing like this would ever happen on my land. Not without me, well, noticing, you know." Unexpectedly at loss for words, Steed swore inwardly. This agricultural stuff doesn't exactly roll off the tongue... His eyes widened disarmingly as he bravely rallied the troops. "I should add that my consultant has a much kinder view of science. I cannot help think that there must be a better, gentler way to improve crop yields. More chianti?"  
  
They moved on to discuss the needs that her firm might be able to adress. Miss MacKay laid out a ten-year plan which, she said, was the time scale over which natural farming could be expected to show its benefits. She sounded frightfully well prepared: soil analyses, moisture monitors, plot divisions, crop rotations, slow-release fertilizers to complement composting. Steed listened with interest and asked her to forward a copy of the plan she had just outlined to his business address. He then skillfully drew her to talk about the prospects of the family business, pointing out the rumours swirling around the latest developments in crop technology.  
  
"Your consultant is quite right, Mr. Steed. Agriculture relies increasingly on science. What might surprise you is that this is not incompatible with a more natural form of farming. The benefits of a scientific approach may run equally well to quality rather than quantity."  
  
Nonetheless, she expressed skepticism when Steed mentioned that the prospect of genetically modified strains was apparently the growing buzz among the bigger firms. In fact, her family had recently turned down a lucrative offer to enter into trials of varieties rumoured to be at the testing stage.  
  
"For a dozen years we have grown four different varieties of barley", she explained,"and adopted state-of-the-art technology. Controlling the amount of soil moisture and monitoring the flux of nutrients is economical and crop rotation enhances the soil fertility and decreases the incidence of disease. We are quite satisfied with our approach."  
  
"Yet I imagine that business, even in the guise of feeding manking, is a ruthless world" offered Steed, delicately. "Do your competitors share your prudence?"  
  
Miss MacKay smiled enigmatically. "What is prudence? What is progress? Your earlier comments weren't off the mark, by the way. The profession harbors a pretty wide range of views."  
  
Steed nodded gravely. Discretion was a quality he treasured in anyone, but finding it in such a lovely and competent form was nothing less than a personal challenge.  
  
After three hours of good food, animated conversation and a few turns on the dance floor, maintaining throughout an impeccable display of gentlemanly manners, Steed walked the spritely Ms. MacKay back to her car. His eyes twinkled appreciatively as he held her hand to his lips.  
  
"Ms. MacKay, it takes a genuine gift for turning what could have been a chore into a most agreeable and educational evening. I look very much forward to doing business with your family's company."  
  
Alison MacKay blushed distinctly but she held his gaze and flashed him a delightful smile, at once winsome and modest. She checked that they had traded business cards, thanked him graciously for the meal and invited him to visit their facilites, an offer that Steed earnestly promised to follow up.  
  
-o0o-  
  
The next step had been to acquaint them with the latest tracking technology developed for the ministry.  
  
As they sat down, the medical officer handed Steed and Mrs. Peel a pair of aerial photos of their sprawling target, its features already familiar.  
  
"As you know, this model farm is humongous. Should you need to locate each other quickly in a field or in any one of their greenhouses, you would be faced with a search for a needle in a haystack." The graphic description of the site of their mission made a pretty convincing case for the minor surgery required. Emma had grimaced and Steed had drummed his fingers rather noncommitally when the door behind them slid open.  
  
Exceptionally, Mother had been discreetly wheeled out of his office by Rhonda. His gravelly voice carried a note of warning rather than the usual bark of authority.  
  
"This is your call, Steed. It did not sit well with me that Warner would consider sending you to that funny farm without making sure we could come looking for you. There are other, less intrusive, options but this one offers the advantage of novelty and discretion. I suggest you try it and report."  
  
The miniature implant now embedded in the fleshy lobe of her ear was certainly unobtrusive but its insertion had made Emma feel unnervingly one step closer to a cybernaut. She wondered if Steed would have accepted the device had she balked at it herself. Despite his readiness to experiment with a wide range of gadgets, he was famously skittish about anything that encroached too intimately on his body. This time, however, Emma Peel had pre-empted his potential objections with a single comment. "This makes perfect sense, Steed, but I will not be the only blip on the radar screen".  
  
That evening, as he steered the Bentley towards the car park of Mrs. Peel's flat, Steed glanced ruefully at the tiny fresh scar on his left forearm. The tiny capsule embedded in his flesh now made him traceable, above ground, underwater or as deep as 5 meters underground, anywhere within a radius of 1 kilometer. As unpleasant as the prospect might be, he had also quizzed the medical officer about the possibility of removing it himself. Emma had rolled her eyes, but the medic had fielded Steed's questions efficiently and quite dispassionately. 


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 7  
  
The prospect of carrying around an implant, potentially for weeks, had put her companion in a brooding mood. Despite his usual outward display of urbanity, Emma sensed tension as soon as Steed stepped inside her apartment. She was already dressed to go out for dinner. Instead of complimenting her as he usually enjoyed doing, Steed proposed that they leave immediately.  
  
At the restaurant, Steed absently pulled a chair for her to sit before the waiter could move to do it himself, as was his habit. Emma leaned towards him as he perused the wine card, and whispered conspiratorially.  
  
"You can relax, now. We are outside the effective range from Whitehall, Steed."  
  
"But not from anyone stationed within a kilometer of your flat or mine."  
  
For a moment, his gracious front dissolved away and his grey eyes flashed utter distate at their situation. Emma was sorry to see him so annoyed but she was in no mood to pity him either. She had quickly accepted to play guinea pig, true, but only because he had led her to guess, from the start of this investigation, that they were being manipulated for a purpose that Mother himself did not quite seem to grasp.  
  
"Come now, Steed. Are you telling me that your employer has never kept track of you before?"  
  
Steed sighed. He had experience surveillance too many times to keep count, and not uncommonly under the watchful eye of his colleagues. It was more fun when you could at least entertain the perverse notion of identifying and tormenting your tail, though. He suppressed the impulse to rub his tender forearm and forced himself to turn back to the wine list. He soon settled on a Pouilly-Fuissé of a recent vintage, which he remembered from a French embassy reception attended earlier in the year.  
  
"My apologies, Mrs. Peel. To be honest, at this precise moment I'd rather be whisking you away to the countryside."  
  
"Why not? You are, after all, under orders to test this tracking system."  
  
Steed's smile was a tad forced, but it was a start. Wickedly, Emma forged on.  
  
"Do you want to hear about my latest findings or shall I inquire about your latest research topic?"  
  
Steed sensed a trap. Still, at Emma's sly teasing, his thin-lipped smile broke into a soft and genuine chuckle.  
  
"Ah, Mrs. Peel. MacKay is a bright child who appears to have a sharp mind for business. No match for you yet, I am sure, but I would hate to have to negotiate a deal with both of you on the other side of a table."  
  
"Feeling better already, aren't we?" said Emma, a touch icier. "Let me tell you about my research, then. As we had agreed, I reviewed the vitae of the scientific staff. We were interested in making sure that they lived up to the glossy promotional brochure, isn't it?"  
  
"Anything interesting?"  
  
"There is substance to the team. Two of the head scientists were recently on internships at Stanford, California, one of the current hotbed of experimental genetics. Their names show up in recent conference proceedings. So far so good. Far more interesting, however, were some anomalies in the pack. A couple of cases of what might be called creative degree padding."  
  
"I remember asking for security background checks on the lot. Were these the files you looked at?"  
  
"Yes. The two fake degree holders have something else in common."  
  
"And what was that?"  
  
"They are dead."  
  
Steed's glass of water stopped in mid-air. "Say again, Mrs. Peel?" He looked around for the waiter. Service seemed a little slow tonight.  
  
"I am saying that two of the agronomers suspected of having been eliminated by their employer were hired with fake professional degrees."  
  
A thought, still half-formed but compelling, came suddenly to Steed. "Mrs. Peel, were the "fake" degrees flagged as such in the files you examined?"  
  
"No, as a matter of fact they weren't. The degrees were granted by legitimate colleges. However, the claim that they were earned in agronomy are bogus. The colleges in question were no longer offering that specialization because the department in question had closed a few years earlier. The funny thing is, I might not have noticed the discrepancy if I had not taken the list with me to the Royal Agriculture College."  
  
Emma took in Steed's blank stare and smiled smugly before adding, helpfully, "In Circencester, Steed."  
  
"That is what I thought." He shrugged, mildly apologetic. "I hadn't realized you had been driving around so much."  
  
"Perhaps because you were on the road yourself", Emma pointed out. "Anyway, I took a leaf from your book. I called up a nice chap that I remembered from a site visit last month, and he offered me a hands-on session in his laboratory. We ended up talking about the future of agriculture, education and all sorts of things. He really got my attention when he mentioned that various departments had disappeared in a wave of rationalization, a few years back."  
  
"Hands-on session?" muttered Steed, as he directed the waiter to offer Emma the first taste of the wine from the Pouilly-Fuissé he had just opened.  
  
"Hmm. Promising." Emma nodded brightly at the bottle and cast an approving smile at the waiter. She glanced slyly at her dining companion as her glass was being filled. "Yes, Steed. The more I read, the more I realized that I needed to familiarize myself with safe laboratory practices: manipulations in a glovebox, microdissections, electrophoresis, that sort of things. An outstanding mentor and very, very hands-on." 


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 8  
  
Emma's description of her visit at the Royal Agricultural College had pulled Steed out of his uncharacteristic moodiness. After a pleasant meal, he drove her back to her flat. On her doorstep, the half-formed thought that had come to him earlier in the evening reasserted itself. He closed the door carefully behind him and turned back slowly to face her.  
  
"I must follow up on your findings, Mrs. Peel, but I need to use a secure line."  
  
Her eyes opened wide. "At this time of night?" A hint of disappointment.  
  
"Well, perhaps not right now", he conceded mischievously, "if I am still welcome. But I will leave early in the morning for a couple of hours. You inspired me to make plans for the day ahead."  
  
"Am I included?"  
  
He hung his bowler and his umbrella before sitting down on her sofa. He swung his long legs down its length and, without answering yet, stretched out a hand to her. She sat down next to him and stroke his chest lightly.  
  
"Wonder if Whitehall still detects two blips at the moment?"  
  
"I shall check on it at the crack of dawn, Mrs. Peel. It will be my pleasure to tell Mother that he should ask for a refund if his bugs fail this test."  
  
-o0o-  
  
Security background checks requested by the ministry were usually compiled by any one of a small number of intelligence agencies specialized in this kind of work. A visit to the Records & Documentation room had quickly confirmed Steed's assumption that the dossier on the fake agronomers had been compiled by MI5. This, in itself, was hardly surprising; the men, after all, were British citizens and had spent their entire life in the United Kingdom. But the senior agent felt it might be wise to confirm their identity using an independent source. Back in his office, he had briefly considered his options before dialing a number.  
  
"Wargrave? Always the night owl?"  
  
The line was surprisingly clear for a transatlantic call. A soft Californian drawl sang with the warmth of instant recognition.  
  
"Steed? A rare pleasure, especially at this hour. Chasing an early worm?"  
  
"You might say that. Do you still have reliable contacts in the City? I have two local IDs that need further checking."  
  
"Heavens! Limeys, you say? Is MI5 losing its touch?"  
  
"Let's just say that I might run into some interference if I ask about these chaps. Their phony college degrees were missed by the fact checkers. There is even a chance that they got too deep in some business that is right up your alley."  
  
"Is this urgent?"  
  
"It won't keep them alive, if that's what you are hinting at. To be blunt, it won't bring them back at all. It may help me see through some smoke and mirrors that are standing in my way at the moment."  
  
His contact asked him to spell the names and addresses, took down the dates of birth and death, and promised Steed he would get back to him within four to five days. As the agent sat back in his chair, his thoughts turned to the investigation that Scotland Yard was allegedly leading into the agronomers' deaths. Steed was now keenly interested in its progress. The slightly tricky part was finding out without seeming to.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Emma was enjoying a cup of tea and the morning's paper when her doorbell rang. As he had planned, Steed had left her a few hours earlier and just returned. By the time she reached her door, his umbrella was drumming a distinctive rap on the other side, a sure sign of his ebullient mood. An infectious smile lit Steed's face as the door swung open. He had traded last night's suit for a lambswool sweater and tweeds and was waving his umbrella vigorously towards the bright morning sky.  
  
"Picnic in lovely Essex, Mrs. Peel? Cover, of course, for a discreet reconnaissance of the ennemy terrain. And a test of our brand new tracking equipment. Thankfully, I have the address of one of the best chefs in the countryside in order to make up for the hardship."  
  
His prospective passenger frowned at him.  
  
"A field test? Honestly, Steed, you could have called... May I beg for fifteen minutes to change?"  
  
"Not one more, Mrs. Peel. Our victuals are packed and the rosé will not stay cool forever."  
  
Emma Peel had grown used to Steed's fondness for impromptu excursions during their assignments. Sporting and evening wear alike were already neatly folded and ready for a grab at a moment's notice.The fresh scent of a rain-washed sky was in the air as they sped out of London in the Bentley.  
  
She sighed as she glanced at the elegant profile of her companion. How time had flown! Without ever admitting it, Steed and her had gradually entwined their personal lives during and between cases.  
  
"Talking to the farming folks, I am rather struck by the emotions aroused over the prospect of genetically modified crops. How does it sit with you, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
Emma had wrestled in earnest with the question. The scientific data offered tantalizing glimpses in what might be possible. A growing number of companies and venture capitalists were already busy stirring up the imagination of potential investors. Yet, the scientist in her felt that years would pass before the consequences of tinkering with genetic blueprints became clear.  
  
"The usual class of businessmen will deal on rumours until the facts are out. In the meantime, it will be child's play to raise fears where food, a basic necessity of life, is concerned. "  
  
"Are you alluding, by any chance, to the prospect of creating entirely new and uncontrollable forms of life, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
"Count me among the skeptics, Steed. Direct genetic manipulation may evoke the perverted goals of eugenics but I prefer to keep the big picture in mind. The basic metabolisms of all forms of life evolved billion of years ago. Over this time, natural selection has fine-tuned cell development far beyond our understanding of it. The companies who are bankrolling this research are gambling big on the molecular stability of these new combinations."  
  
The smile of Miss Mackay crossed Steed's mind, fleetingly. He glanced guiltily at his companion. She was staring ahead, oblivious to his mild nod. Relieved, he focussed on the road signs, intent on not missing the last turn towards their destination.  
  
The Bentley's purr faded as it came to a halt at a lay-by. They had come to a ridge overlooking the sun-drenched fields. Steed swung his door open and raised a hamper from behind the driver's seat. Emma joined him, ready to give a hand. The sun was now high above the glorious midday scenery. They set about the task of laying out their picnic, spreading the fine linen and shining silverware on the soft grass. The bottle of rosé was uncorked and laid in its gleaming ice bucket, under the shade of a stately oak. They helped themselves to crab sandwiches and a salad niçoise, cool and crisp.  
  
Leaning on his elbows, Steed squinted from under his bowler. The lay of the land was already familiar from his meticulous study of detailed air photos obtained at the Ministry's request. He peered into the horizon, clearly intent on committing to his memory every feature of the landscape stretched out ahead of them. He finished another sandwich, picked a crumb off his clothes, and stretched his long frame before drawing from his belt a pair of small binoculars. He swept them slowly across the landscape before finally focussing on a site to the southeast.  
  
"Well chosen location, by all accounts. Sheds scattered across the fields. Three greenhouses. A small runway for cropdusters, well sheltered by a ribbon of low trees. None of this existed two year ago. Our target has deep pockets and uncommonly efficient contractors."  
  
Emma was still spearing her greens as she listened to him. Steed leaned back towards her and whispered conspiratorially, "And now, there is the small matter of the tracking system." Slyly he added, "Mrs. Peel, can I ever tempt you again into visiting a corn field maze?"  
  
Emma Peel winced at the memory of the mad chase that his words instantly conjured. "Even a star investigator might find it a stretch to find a corn field in May", she objected.  
  
"That might be a problem", conceded Steed. "However, we are only minutes away from one of the largest industrial greenhouses in the land. Maybe they can do something for us."  
  
They were expected, naturally, and promptly admitted upon a display of their credentials: Dr. Peel, consultant in agronomy and her employer, J.V de Steed. The structure, fairly non-descript from the outside, was huge. Inside, the sight of dense greenery and its heavy moist scent were arresting. Mist spurted sporadically from a sophisticated watering system. Apart from its stifling high humidity, it was a decent substitute for a densely planted field and possibly the safest and most realistic setting for the test they had in mind. Pacing away from the greenhouse personnel, they briefly reviewed the list of manoeuvres to be rehearsed and then went their separate ways.  
  
From opposite ends of the greenhouse, Steed and Peel set their watches. Twin models in function, but not in size nor style, they complemented the radiowave emitters they were carrying on their body. The screen could switch from an innocuous-looking LED display of time to a cryptic set of alphanumeric coordinates signalling their relative location.  
  
They started crisscrossing the greenhouse, ostensibly examining the plantings and the monitoring equipment and feigning to take notes but all the while carefully watching and timing their progress along a precise series of paths. They practiced finding each other while walking blindly through the maze of rows, crouching to hide from direct view as they approached each other. They circled around one another to simulate their familiar stalking and cover strategies.  
  
At one point, Steed stopped next to a barrel and dunked his arm in the lukewarm water several tens of seconds. The signal weakened but did not disappear from his colleague's screen. After these preliminaries, they used the tiny push buttons on their watches to issue a series of commands which flashed across each other's miniature wrist screens. Using them, they practiced converging on targets within the greenhouse that neither of them could see directly.  
  
Sweaty but quite satisfied that the system met their expectations, they returned towards the entrance, saluted the head scientist. They chatted awhile about the benefits of their environmental monitoring system before returning to the Bentley. If their visit came to the attention of either Expefarmax or Warner, the outing would appear entirely in character with their role in Warner's plan.  
  
"Enough greens for the day?" asked Steed, plucking stray leaves from his sweater and fastidiously brushing his bowler before sliding onto the seat of his Bentley. "I think we earned our dandelion badge."  
  
He announced his suggestions for the end of the day "Hot bath, good food and fine beverages. Music, perhaps. Not necessarily in that order, of course. And a reparatory night in the peaceful countryside before I drive you back to the drudgery of Knight Industries."  
  
-o0o-  
  
Steed's eyes glinted as he opened the door to the suite. Emma noted that the tastefully furnished salon was graced by a lavish bouquet of red roses.  
  
"Is this a novel category on your research budget?"  
  
"A modest example of genetic engineering", said Steed with feigned sheepishness.  
  
"Technically primitive but utterly romantic" approved Emma. She broke off his playful kiss, lowered her eyes and winced at the clinginess of her damp clothes. "Perhaps you could put on music while I soak away?"  
  
"Absolutely. Let me take care first of the atmosphere and I will join you shortly. I have been assured", he added "that the bath is eminently suited to the occasion."  
  
It was. In fact, the bath was huge and already full of foamy water, heavenly hot and fragrant with scented salts. Within minutes, Emma immersed herself in it. Soon the familiar bright staccato of a Vivaldi concerto echoed through the walls. She remembered it immediately from one of the very first concerts they had attended together. Steed soon appeared at her side, clad in a plush bathrobe and bearing champagne flutes and truffles on a silver tray.  
  
"The evening is ours" he announced. "We could dine and dance downstairs or." ". or", finished Emma, "enjoy our first week-end together behind closed doors in weeks." Sipping from her flute, she watched him witsfully as he lowered himself in the bath to face her. "Does it really take the threat of a diabolical mastermind to bring this about, Steed?"  
  
"Believe what you will, Mrs. Peel" said her partner, stretching his muscular legs on either side of hers. "If your blue-ribbon panel or Knight Industries had planned to keep you away much longer, I might just have abducted you." His tone was teasing but Steed's throaty voice had imbued it with unmistakable sincerity. Emma splashed him playfully. Then she remembered what she had wanted to ask.  
  
"The ministry informed me that Warner had confirmed our next meeting for the day after tomorrow. What do you plan to tell him?" 


	10. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
FATAL HARVEST  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 9  
  
Steed had suggested that Warner meet them in the lobby of his club in mid- afternoon. Emma strolled in a few minutes early and found her partner enjoying a cigar and leafing idly through the newspaper. He lifted his head.  
  
"May I borrow your new pen, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
"Your latest weapon for tackling erudite crossword puzzles, Steed?" she asked. Well, that explained this morning's delivery, hidden in a box of Swiss chocolates. She had guessed the identity of the sender but not its purpose. "Reminds me of the one adorning Warner's shirt pocket," she ventured.  
  
"Coincidences," said Steed mildly, "are overrated." He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he examined its gleaming, slender shape. "In the two weeks to come, Warner will seek, at our request and Mother's, a number of documents, including some which should carry official signatures. I hear that forgery is one of his minor talents. A special ink will let us detect any handwriting or postdating done with this pen."  
  
Emma pocketed back the object. "He will notice the substitution if he is attached to it."  
  
Steed shrugged slightly. "An honest mistake, Mrs. Peel, in which case you gladly return the original. Equipped with a new ink cartridge, of course."  
  
-o0o-  
  
Warner had hurried up the last steps of the stairs. He glanced at his watch and surveyed the lobby. His expectant expression lit up with relief as he spotted them.  
  
Steed whispered as he got up, "Time to put your hands-on skills in practice, Mrs. Peel. I shall trust your green thumb for this bit of planting."  
  
Most of Steed's club was open strictly to gentlemen, but he had reserved a small, private salon for their meeting. They walked together to the cosy room and sat down around a low table where a bottle of single-malt scotch and glasses had already been set. Belying the small pudgy hands sagely clasped in his lap, Warner's tone held a note of controlled excitement.  
  
"Getting the feel of the case, colleagues?"  
  
"Giving it our full attention, dear chap", Steed assured him. He summarized their activities of the last two weeks with a commendable luxury of details, omitting only the ministry's tracking system and Mrs. Peel's discovery of bogus credentials among the Expefarmax staff. He concluded by announcing that they had given more thought to the best way of approaching the firm.  
  
"Very simply, we are convinced that we must offer something valuable to Expefarmax, or risk getting nothing more than a polite rebuff."  
  
Warner's expression turned from his usual blandness to mild amusement. "Really, Steed? You said earlier that we had our plan backwards. Just what would you offer them in order to find out what they are looking for?"  
  
Steed leaned forward slightly. "Surely, you have noticed that their top brass never enters a deal with anyone making them an unsolicited offer. Their modus operandus, so far, is invariably to find and contact landowners."  
  
"I am aware", Warner nodded cautiously, "that this appears to have been the case."  
  
Steed sat back and sipped his scotch in a deliberate pause before continuing.  
  
"This suggests that the owners or the properties are quite carefully screened. Regrettably, the file is a little thin on their topic. Has anyone seriously pondered why these specific properties were selected for conducting their trials?"  
  
Warner assumed a convincingly naïve look. Emma Peel's gaze locked onto him as she joined the conversation.  
  
"While researching my role, I came across a marvellously sharp fellow at the Royal Agricultural College. He could help us select a site that should appeal to Expefarmax . Assuming, naturally, that they care about their reputation or their cover as serious agronomers."  
  
"How much information would you need?" The words were muttered with some effort as Warner struggled slightly under the spell of her lovely brown eyes.  
  
"Addresses of the sites, preferably with a map outlining the extent of the properties" answered Emma Peel, brightly. "Those I can check them against RAG maps of British micro-climates."  
  
". copies of property deeds, and background checks of property owners" added Steed. "Something in their personal or financial situation must have made them attractive targets, possibly vulnerable to blackmail."  
  
"And could you possibly identify for us the sites where the dead agronomers had worked for Expefarmax? There might be something unusual about them," added Emma.  
  
Warner's eyes suddenly widened in alarm. "You don't intend to call on the owners yourself, do you?"  
  
Steed raised an eyebrow in a candid display of surprise. "And risk alerting our prey? Not on your life! In any case, our director, the last man I wish to cross, is adamant: no field work without ministerial approval."  
  
Mindful of the civil servant's dejected expression, the senior agent slapped his back lightly and added on a soothing tone, "Patterns, Warner, are all we wish to look for."  
  
"Assuming I can gather it all by the end of the week, will you need long to sift through this information?"  
  
Steed looked at Mrs. Peel. "How about setting our next meeting a week following reception of the documents?" She nodded gravely.  
  
'Sounds reasonable", sighed Warner with perceptible relief.  
  
"May I borrow your pen and draft you a quick list?" said Emma graciously. Defeated, Warner raised his hand to his pocket. While she dashed notes on a pad, Steed unrolled his newspaper and jabbed at an inside page. "Fancy crossword puzzles, Warner? Mrs. Peel and I were arguing over this clue here, 2 down, just as you arrived..."  
  
-o0o-  
  
Steed glanced back at his car in the parking lot. For once, he reflected, his venerable Bentley didn't look out of place. He had arrived in Hurley shortly before lunch and stopped at The Old Bell, whose claim to fame as England's oldest inn would have earned his interest even without its comforting menu of hearty traditional fare and local ales. Pity, he thought, that Mrs. Peel had remembered an earlier commitment when he had mentioned his plan to visit Miss MacKay's place of business.  
  
The family firm was housed a few blocks further, in its own quaint building. Inside, the staff was handling customers and phoned-in orders in a buzz of activity worthy of a beehive. Farmers had taken delivery of their supplies months ago but early May was clearly a busy month for amateur gardeners.  
  
Steed looked around and noted the older prints of harvesting scenes that were gracing the walls. Wondering why he had, after all, chosen not to call ahead, he cast a wary glance at the line of anxious customers stretching between him and the receptionist.  
  
He was still musing over the best way to get quickly to Miss MacKay when she strode out of an office behind the counter, a folder in hand.  
  
Apologizing profusely to the other customers, Steed cut across the line and leaned over the counter. "Miss MacKay" he called out, waving his bowler. "Would it be possible at all to see you for a moment?"  
  
She cast a surprised glance which, to his bafflement, turned almost instantaneously to outright hostility. Nevertheless, her slim hand signalled that he should come round and join her into her office. Stiffly, she closed the door behind them. He stood up, waiting politely for an invitation to take a seat. Surprisingly, even that small gesture was witheld. Miss MacKay sat down and, plainly, scowled back at him.  
  
"Why should I listen to you, Mr. Steed", she said warningly, "when you are not what you seem?"  
  
His pale gray eyes, unperturbed, appraised her. She appeared in control of her emotions but definitely defiant. Deliciously so, to his mind. A touch of fear, perhaps? Steed did not wish her to be afraid and, without hesitation, he decided to speak as candidly as he could afford.  
  
"You are right, Ms. MacKay. I work for a security service within the British government. At times, this means approaching people under false pretenses in order to get them to reveal things."  
  
"An investigator", she said softly. A weight seemed to lift from her slim shoulders as she contemplated the simplicity of his explanation.  
  
"Miss MacKay, I recall distinctly the delightful evening where you mentioned having been approached about running field tests for experimental trials."  
  
"So do I" she conceded, guardedly.  
  
"You are very well versed in state-of-the-art monitoring agrotechnology. Could I seek your opinion on the purpose of the equipment set up for one of these trials?"  
  
"I will not engage in any disloyal action towards my competitors."  
  
"And I shall ask for nothing of the sort. I am looking after the interests of a nation, not working for any commercial firm, Miss MacKay. This is a strictly a security issue, and possibly a very serious one."  
  
"National security?" Her tone was still skeptical but her mind was visibly racing behind her alert features. Steed pulled out his emblazoned service card as he kept talking.  
  
"I have good reasons to suspect that some landowners are being misled about the use of their fields. I plan to bring back pictures of their monitoring equipment." Steed raised his eyebrows encouragingly. Her gaze was pensive but he could sense that her defenses had been breached.  
  
"You need never find out where these sites were located" he concluded. "But In order to collect evidence, I need indications about what to look for. Need I say more to convince you that this is a little out of my field?"  
  
Even as he waited for an answer, his natural curiosity about her reasserted itself. Not only was she definitely lovely and knowledgeable, but she had quickly seen through him. Had it been luck or intuition?  
  
"Ms. MacKay, you clearly took some interest in my person following our last meeting. May I ask you if, or how I gave you cause for alarm?"  
  
Her pixyish face shone with pride. "It was not something you did, Mr. Steed. You are a landowner but you aren't exactly living off it. Simply put, you do not exist, at least in the world I live in. I check the background of all my potential customers. Farming is a terribly cyclical business, and one's credit worthiness is measured as much by one's standing within the farming community as by one's line of credit with the bank."  
  
He tipped his bowler with a rueful smile. "My compliments to your professionalism, Miss MacKay."  
  
He had already decided that her immediate interest in him as a potential customer was a promising sign. Engagingly hopeful, he pressed on. "How about lunch, then, as a modest apology for my deception?"  
  
Retreating carefully to a businesslike neutrality, she briefly pondered his suggestion. "Well, my schedule today is definitely too full to see you at any other time. How much can you take about crop monitoring over a soup and a sandwich?"  
  
Steed fingered the small tape recorder in his inside pocket and smiled angelically. "Miss MacKay, I think that you will find me an uncommonly good listener."  
  
-o0o-  
  
The satisfied expression on Steed's face was echoed by Emma's sigh. Huddled on her sofa, they had been listening to the recording of his lunch conversation.  
  
"Young and impressionable, isn't she?" she said.  
  
Steed's hand stroked the small of her back. "Do not judge in haste, Mrs. Peel. She saw right through my gentleman farmer's act. From one shrewd businesswoman to another, you two might have quite a bit in common."  
  
Emma conceded the point. "She packed quite a bit of useful information into that half-hour."  
  
"And she sent me back with these, from their documentation room."  
  
They sifted through and pulled from a folder the documents describing the equipment mentioned specifically by Miss McKay. Emma leaned over to pull the tape recorder a little closer and, pen in hand, prepared to listen to the recorded conversation once again.  
  
"You realize that there is no way to check on the details she mentions without getting up close to the sensors", she finally announced after putting down her notepad and turning off the recorder.  
  
"My thoughts exactly", said Steed, finally getting up. "Does this mean I can count on you as my get-away driver, Mrs. Peel?"  
  
"And incur Mother's wrath for abetting unauthorized field work?" She knew even as she spoke that her sarcasm would go unheeded. Steed's swift motions as he retrieved his coat and umbrella spoke of an irrepressible energy, restrained by discipline, but ready now to be cast into imminent action.  
  
"As you said recently, one must keep in mind the big picture, Mrs. Peel" he said, tipping his bowler before stepping sprightly out of the room. He was safely out of reach when she caught the last words uttered over his shoulder "Besides, I might not get a better chance of earning back Miss MacKay's respect."  
  
As the sound of his steps receded, Emma wondered idly how coolly the business-minded Miss MacKay would weather the wait for the return of this charming rogue.  
  
-o0o- 


	11. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.  
  
Fatal Harvest  
  
Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.  
  
Chapter 10  
  
Between her professional commitments and her research on Expefarmax, Emma had resumed enthusiastically her training sessions at the ministry's gym. The knowledge that her reflexes were as finely tuned as ever, that her balance and strength were being honed back to optimal conditions, were exhilarating. The familiar feeling of anticipation at the prospect of action by Steed's side was growing by the day. Add to this the thrill of finding the first ill-fitting pieces in the puzzle handed to them. Everything should have felt perfect, indeed.  
  
But she was aware of a subtle tension in Steed, unfamiliar and disquieting. She had considered, and quickly dismissed as a probable cause, his professional interest in Miss MacKay. She expected him to use charm and guile shamelessly, sometimes well past his professed standards of honourable behaviour. If he chose to cultivate Miss MacKay as a potentially useful contact, it was on the basis of his innate appreciation of the fairer sex as much as professional instinct. Yet, on this delicate but familiar enough territory, Emma Peel could willingly defer to his judgment, as long as she asserted her right to hear as little as possible about it. After all, she reflected wryly, Steed was as touchy as she was whenever the roles were reversed.  
  
This assessment left her with two plausible hypotheses. The first one lay in the ambiguous nature of their relationship. She admitted that it remained a delicious and, well, rather maddening charade. One that would undoubtedly come to its natural end with the eventual dissolution of their partnership. Steed had been his usual falsely nonchalant self when he had presented her with the prospect of this new case. Both of them, she was quite sure, had genuinely looked forward to the potent blend of romantic adventure and action they had shared before.  
  
The only explanation left for his brooding mood, she concluded, was her partner's absorption with the odd circumstances of this particular case. There was, without a doubt, some dreadful game of cat-and-mouse being played. Patience was a necessary virtue in Steed's trade, and he had it in spades when necessary. Faced with half-truths or lies, however, he could marshall all his resources to get to the bottom of things, regardless of who might intend to sidetrack or stonewall him.  
  
Sending Warner back with his begging bowl gave them an opportunity to move swiftly. That much Emma understood and she realized that Steed now needed her unconditional support. Action, she reasoned, offered their best chance at seeing more clearly through Warner's convoluted plan. And it was possibly the only way to close the awkward gap that threatened to grow wider between them.  
  
-o0o-  
  
After leaving Emma's flat, Steed had driven to his office at Whitehall. By now he expected some kind of answer to his overseas inquiry. He found and played twice the terse message left on his machine. It simply asked him to call back regarding the translation of the third paragraph of page 169. The memories of operations shared with Wargrave flooded back like a tide, and his hand rose with mechanical ease to pull out the correct tome from his shelf. The page in question contained a passage that he used as a key to select another page and column from a current London directory. He ran down his finger across the fine print until he came to a specific phone number. Only the last digits would be relevant since the rank and length of the paragraph had told him which American area code and city exchange the call would reach.  
  
The short conversation did nothing to lift his spirits. Both agronomers had left a dismally short paper trail before their owners had come to their unfortunate ends. Their identities were definitely aliases. The kind of fabrication routinely used, in Wargrave's words, for low-level undercover operations by British security services. His sources had duly documented their brief employment with Expefarmax. His own, prudent description of their association with the firm left no doubt in Steed's mind that Wargrave was already aware of the company's shadowy status.  
  
"The causes of death were natural, according to the file I hold," reminded Steed.  
  
"Indeed. It was also natural, I expect, that the same coroner signed both reports, which describe the deaths having occurred at home. No next-of-kin on the premises to confirm the circumstances, and the authorities were alerted by a well-meaning but naturally anonymous neighbour in both cases."  
  
"Remarkable," added Steed with a touch of asperity. "I am told the cases were re-opened by the Yard."  
  
"Most discreetly, I trust." The wry tone did not mask a gentle weariness. A cue that there was nothing more to share and, most likely, that his interlocutor was facing a gruelling work schedule.  
  
"How may I return the favour, Wargrave?"  
  
"Expefarmax's business, as you had suspected, is of interest to some customers of mine. You could call me back once you get a better feel for their practices."  
  
Uncanny, Steed thought, as he lowered the receiver, how a familiar voice could bring you back so swiftly across time and space. His mind was already distilling the conversation into the cryptic note he had planned to leave for Mother's benefit. On his way to the ministry's store rooms he slipped the message in Rhonda's mail drop, and set himself to the task of selecting field gear for the next day. It had been a long day, but he would not end it without a visit to the gymnasium. Steed looked forward to the physical discipline, knowing it would help clear the clouds of suspicion that were gathering thickly. With some luck, his coming expedition would provide him the justification he needed to share his latest findings with Mrs. Peel.  
  
-o0o-  
  
"The Crowfoot Inn", announced Steed as the Bentley pulled in the parking lot. "Two hundred odd years in business and the finest fowl around on the menu." The dark oak-panelled pub and its polished mahogany bar were not a liability, either, thought Emma as she strode in on his arm. While Steed went about the formalities of getting keys and seeing their luggage taken to their rooms for the night, Emma surveyed the surroundings. Nobody could accuse Steed of wasting time in abstract speculation, she mused. Having little else to go on, he had blithely chosen among properties rented by Expefarmax for the reputation of the local accommodations.  
  
They had booked separate rooms, across the hall from one another, as their aliases might be expected to request. They went their separate way about the business of settling down and freshening up, slipping effortlessly in their roles. Dinner was served at six in the main dining room. There were few guests, most of them professionals meeting for business.  
  
The delicately prepared fowl lived up to the inn's promise and the full- bodied red wine soon took the edge off their usual banter. There was something undeniably romantic about this prelude to their mission. Steed courteously pulled her chair and followed her as they left the table. Mrs. Peel felt his hand land gently first on her arm, then move to her waist. He drew her closer as they walked towards the lobby. "The stars are out" he pointed out. "How about a stroll?"  
  
A breeze was carrying up the scent of the dewy fields surrounding the inn. Overhead, stars reached up in infinity. Steed started pointing out a few of his favorite constellations, but he soon appeared to lose interest in their celestial charms. In truth, nothing much needed saying as they stood, mostly drinking in the peaceful scene laid out before them.  
  
"Shooting star coming our way" Steed whispered suddenly. "Watch out for the sparks." Emma felt a flurry of kisses land on the nape of her neck, light as butterflies at first, then growing increasingly ardent. She stretched and leaned back against him, his strong arms cradling her. All senses tingling, she soon turned her eyes away from the starry sky and tugged at his sleeve to signal that she was ready to return to the inn. They parted wordlessly at the top of the stairs. She entered her room alone and sat on her bed, exhilarated at the ease with which they slipped back in the familiar pattern of their nocturnal reunions. A few minutes later, Steed quietly opened his door and crossed the landing to join her.  
  
It was past midnight before they slipped out again, silent shadows that were soon swallowed by the night. Two kilometers away from the inn, the headlights of the Bentley sliced across the road as it came to a layby. Emma Peel dimmed them and slowly rolled another few hundreds yards before stopping.  
  
She watched the familiar frown of concentration on Steed's handsome face as he mentally ran through his own checklist. "Goggles, gloves, respirator?" she insisted, appraising him sharply once he seemed to have completed the exercise.  
  
Steed grimaced. "Ah yes, the goggles. Left them on the dresser at the inn. Broke a strap when I tried them on and put them aside."  
  
Emma's scowl would have frozen a lesser man. "Honestly, Steed."  
  
She said nothing more and thought darkly of the spare pair, packed back in her room, that he could have borrowed if only he had mentioned the incident before leaving. Emma rather suspected that the actual cause of his carelessness was his disdain for this particular bit of high-tech paraphernalia. Steed had the eyes of a cat and, in most situations, he trusted his senses better than most pieces of equipment. Despite her irritation, Emma refrained from pointing out that the infra-red goggles were also intended to serve as protective eyewear.  
  
Steed shrugged. "Too late. I am going in. Plot my trajectory every five minutes and plan to pick me up about 90 minutes from now, wherever I end up."  
  
-o0o-  
  
A path trampled through the field led to a wooden shed looming like a gloomy sentinel. There were four vehicles parked outside. Steed ran his hands along the flanks of the first one, a tiller, and felt its cold, smooth metallic surface against his palm. He moved on to the control panel, turned on his small flashlight. His pulse raced faster as he stroked the third machine. In front, on its sides and on the back, the metallic hull was pierced by a row of small vents that he had not seen on other models. Nimbly, his fingertips reached in and he felt the blunt tips of slender nozzles recessed inside. In the beam of his flashlight, an additional bank of switches gleamed back across the control panel.  
  
Turning away from the vehicles, he reached for the door of the shed. Perhaps Expefarmax had not wished to risk raising suspicion by installing a sophisticated security system. The lock barely slowed down Steed's entry.  
  
Gloves, buckets, shovels, canisters of chemicals, and all manner of other gardening paraphernalia were piled along the walls. Above an innocent display of tools, Steed's eyes caught the faint outline of a panel that he quickly unhinged. He let out a soft whistle as he lifted it. It was the control box he was looking for. Among the tangled wires he easily found the few he wished to unsolder, and swiftly disabled the system. Now, he hoped, one might venture across the field in relative safety.  
  
-o0o-  
  
Scanning the ground gingerly ahead of him, Steed had already skirted a half- dozen fox traps, crossed two ditches and photographed three monitoring stations when he noticed the buzzing sound of a plane. He had intended to make it back to the shed and restore the wiring in the control box to its former condition but the plane grew closer and louder, sickeningly fast. There was nowhere to hide in the freshly mowed field, and several hundreds of yards of open space stretched like years between him and the shed or the closest edge of the field.  
  
He was suddenly cloaked in a sticky fog spreading like a veil cast from above. His throat constricted painfully as he caught his breath and his eyes started stinging. Teeth clenched, he started to run, hoping for a few seconds of invisibility before facing the prospect of being seen or, worse, shot at from above.He risked a last glance, trying to judge his distance to the last ditch he had crossed. Futile effort. The landscape had dissolved in a stinging haze. He closed shut eyes that were now burning, and ran blindly without slowing down for several tens of meters. He hardly opened his eyes when the blurry edge of the ditch appeared almost under his feet. Unable to slow himself down, he stumbled in a heap, barely breaking his fall with his elbows, arms folded to shield his head. Coughing and rasping, he lowered a hand to his belt, found his gas mask, checked its connection to the small tank hung at his waist. He quickly covered his nose and mouth with the rubbery contraption. In between fits of coughing, he avidly drew several breaths that somewhat cleared his head. His eyes were still profusely teary, and his face and the back of his hands were tingling most unpleasantly from the powder stuck to his skin. He had a fleeting thought for the pair of infra-red goggles, useless and untouched on his dresser, and berated himself roundly for his stubbornness.  
  
The sound of the plane had receded but it had not faded. In fact it seemed to be crisscrossing the fields systematically. Was this a routine spraying or was the plane patrolling for intruders? During forty more minutes, the dull roar waxed and waned over the area. Steed wiped his eyes, nose and mouth with a square of gauze and drew himself up to peer cautiously above the edge of the ditch. All clear. However, he also glanced down to discover, to his disgust, that he was glowing eerily from head to toe with luminescent powder, clinging stubbornly to his clothes. Hardly the way to leave unnoticed. Coolly, he took off his overcoat and turned it inside out. Cloaked again in a dark colour, he slunk away in a half-crouch and reached the hedge bordering the field, apparently without drawing attention.  
  
Down the road, Emma's heart had jumped at the faint drone of the plane. She fought the impulse to rush her driving back and pick up Steed, and suddenly thanked Mother for the gift of her tracking watch. Its small screen now mesmerised her. The luminous digits flashed a vivid record of Steed's movements. As he had suggested, she was plotting them down. In her lap, the ruled paper on the clipboard charted her emotions in minutes and seconds. Elation at his rapid progress across the field after his search of the shed, anxiety at his agonizing pause when the plane swooped over the field - had he found shelter or had he been spotted? - and sheer relief at the resumption of his slow crawl towards the edge of the field. She noted automatically, as she brought round the Bentley, that she was about to meet him nearly exactly at the appointed time.  
  
Her heart was thumping against her ribs as she stepped out to wait for any sign of him. A rustle in the shadowy hedge barely preceeded his bursting into sight, dark head and torso above the ghostly glowing pants. He saw her, and briefly opened the flaps of his overcoat to reveal more luminescent clothes.  
  
"I see that you outshone the opposition" she whispered appreciatively, walking briskly in his direction. She stepped back and wrinkled her nose inquiringly as he sidled closer.  
  
"Extra-strong bug spray" he croaked, unable to quite suppress a new fit of coughing.  
  
"Better get you hosed down before we return to the inn" she added, concern tinging her voice.  
  
"Not quite the cosy welcome I was hoping for, Mrs. Peel" he growled, but she obviously had a point. Not only might the stuff be toxic, but walking into the inn scented with glowing powder might draw unwanted attention to their nocturnal excursion.  
  
The need for quick decontamination had been anticipated. The glowing mixture was water soluble and the hosing, performed from the back of the car, was uncomfortably chilling but mercifully quick. Sollicitously, Emma handed over a change of dry clothes to Steed, who had stripped free of his messy gear singlehandedly as he stoically showered using the other hand. She caught and bagged the wet, smelly heap of clothes and threw it in the boot, while Steed walked round to claim back the driving seat of his Bentley. He shook his head as his partner reached over with a thick towel to help dry off his hair.  
  
He sighed ruefully as he steered the hulking car onto the road. "Not my finest hour, Mrs. Peel. I hate to leave behind unfinished business. Those wires undone in the control box will be awfully obvious."  
  
"Worth going back?" she wondered aloud.  
  
"Probably not. This not being officially our case, muddying the waters might even work out to our advantage."  
  
"That sounds like an article of faith more than strategic planning, Steed."  
  
Her skeptical tone drew an amused snort from her companion. "Admittedly, my strategy stopped at the selection of a five-star inn and the portable telescope that will brand us as passionate stargazers in the innkeeper's eyes. Beyond this", he flashed her a boyish smile, "I may have been shamelessly casting in the dark, Mrs. Peel, but it's been known to scare the odd villain into a blundering move." 


	12. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. 

Fatal Harvest

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 11

    Awake but not quite aware by seven, Emma spent a few dreamy seconds searching with one hand the space, now empty, next to her. With a start, she suddenly remembered where she was and why. Smiling as she dressed, she refreshed herself before stepping out to rap briefly but sharply at Steed's door. She did not wait but headed downstairs for to the dining room. Whether or not she cared to admit it, and his secrecy nothwithstanding, the prospect of facing the day and a new challenge at Steed's side made her nerves tingle. Breakfast was already being served amidst a clanking of silverware and porcelain. Steed, handsome in his lambswool sweater and twills, padded down the stairs a few moments later, a slight stiffness in his normally effortless stride the only hint of last night's escapade.

  Breakfast had never been his favourite meal of the day. Munching distractedly on a piece of buttered toast, he gazed at the hearty fare set in front of Emma. Her robust appetite, he thought cheerfully, was a good omen for what promised to be a busy day. Carefully, they kept to small talk until they left the inn and took to the road.

"Anything remarkable about the equipment?"

 "Some of it is was of suggestively foreign engineering, East German or Czech, if I am not mistaken. Incidentally, Mrs. Peel, this is shaping up to be a beautiful day. Would you mind terribly if we took the long way back to London?"

  Her regular inspection of the roadmap had already revealed the curiously circuitous itinerary on which he had settled. Unwilling to ask why, she assumed at first that he was making sure they were not followed. However, his driving soon took them unmistakably in the vicinity of the Expefarmax headquarters. Puzzling at what her partner might wish to accomplish there in broad daylight, she stretched with obvious relief as they stopped at the local petrol station.

  "So, what's the next step in your inspired improvisation?"

  He waved at the attendant. "Oh, I don't know… Sneak a peek on the grounds _before_ meeting their top brass?" He stared at her enigmatically.  "What shall we deliver to Expefarmax, Mrs. Peel? Herbicide, anhydrous ammonia, fertilizer …"

Really, thought Emma, did the man realize how infuriating he could be? She bit down on a sarcastic comment and opted for false nonchalance as the Bentley continued its progress towards Expefarmax . "Whatever you wish, Steed". But her exasperation showed through when she didn't resist adding, "I am sure Whitehall _will love it."_

At that Steed snapped his fingers. "Ah yes, orders. Always on my mind." The flippancy vanished as he explained, "Mother should now have in hand the note I left to Rhonda's attention. A spot of warning, so he wouldn't lose our trail.  I expect some sparks when I return, but this means that we can count on backup within less than one kilometer's radius." A pause for effect. "Good enough to tiptoe into the devil's own Eden, wouldn't you agree?"

Infuriating or deranged? At times like this Emma could not quite decide. "You know, Steed" and her tone had a fatalistic note, "this reminds me of your chess playing. Utterly undisciplined to the casual observer, but done with a keen eye out for your opponent's mistakes. Do you care to tell me more?"

Her partner had stopped the car and drawn out his binoculars, apparently spotting something of interest because his voice dropped. "All things considered, we won't need to burden ourselves with mundane merchandise. Here is a van driver who has not yet realized that he has just forgotten something important on Expefarmax' premises…"

"And who" asked Emma sardonically, "will bring his oversight to his attention?"

His expression melted into a warm, easy smile, begging for her indulgence. "You know how irresistible you can appear, standing helplessly the roadside…"

"Anything else?"

"Well, considering that Mother's wrath is more palatable in smaller doses, you should perhaps stand back and play Florence Nightingale to our victim while I go in."

 They drove some distance past the gate of the research facility, but well before the next intersection leading back to the main street of the village. When the delivery van drove out of Expefarmax's gate and headed their way, Emma Peel beckoned, looking adorably distressed next to a Bentley that was now belching harmless but impressively dark puffs of thick smoke.

-o0o-

Like a big cat stalking his prey in long grass, Steed circled the van with effortless ease while the driver rose from his seat to take a closer look at Mrs. Peel and the hulking, smoking antique car. In a few strides, the agent was on him before his target had any chance to realise what was happening. His throat constricted by the muscular forearm wrapped around it, the driver struggled, choked as the grip tightened relentlessly and finally went limp. Steed plucked the van keys from the ignition and threw them at Emma. She slid into their victim's seat to stand watch from it, while Steed dragged the inert body to the Bentley. As she sat down, she noticed a gap in the partition behind the seat. Taking a peek at the van's load should have required only a small stretch but, as soon as she tried, she nearly fell back, overtaken by nausea.

She slipped out of the van and walked rather shakily towards the Bentley. The smoke had cleared miraculously quickly and Steed was busy swapping his bowler and vest for the driver's cap and windcheater. For a moment he stood, his back to her, staring quizzically at his left hand. He was clutching a wad of banknotes and a note scrawled on a page torn from a notebook, doubtlessly the content of the windcheater's left pocket.

 "Steed, would you check the merchandise before driving this van back there…" The odd tone of her voice drew his immediate attention. He grabbed back the keys she held out to him.

The smell, in its sickening familiarity, assailed him when he opened the double doors. He leaned in, ignored the tightening of his stomach and spotted the body bag concealed behind a clutter of pallets and boxes. Slamming the doors shut, he turned around and signalled to Emma that she should follow him. He climbed into the driver's seat. Within seconds, they pulled ahead and away from Expefarmax.

Nobody seemed to be following them. Yet, even as he thought furiously Steed was in no mood to thank his lucky star. Considering his macabre cargo, the driver's reckless interest in Mrs. Peel's charms (irresistible as they were) was astonishing. It suggested that he had performed this sinister trip often enough to grow rather jaded. Steed thought of the ministry team who was likely in the area, and how his colleagues would react at the sign that Mrs. Peel and he were now travelling in two vehicles. He had hinted earlier that they could be used as a backup team if their help was needed. He suddenly found himself wishing ardently that they would not interfere.

A sign pointing to a birding tower provided an unexpected opportunity to turn onto a quiet, wooded path. The Bentley dutifully followed him. Steed stopped the van well short of the observatory, in a bend where a copse of trees offered some privacy.  He walked over to the Bentley, and reached for handcuffs and bindings behind the driver's seat as Emma stared at him in stunned silence. "Better tie this fellow's hands and feet, Mrs. Peel. In fact, it might be wise to administer a sedative. I doubt that a gentleman would volunteer for the task he was about to carry out."

"How could he stand the smell…" Emma shuddered at the thought.

"Probably no worse than pig manure" suggested Steed helpfully before adding, in a more urgent tone, "Mrs. Peel, I must ask you to drive him back solo to London."

"Of course. Your flat or mine?" Her levity did not stop the grey eyes from scanning hers with genuine concern. Superfluously, though. Emma Peel was rapidly regaining control on her nerves. She turned her attention to their prisoner and the potion Steed had handed her. Partly revived by the fresh air, the man let out a moan and swallowed involuntarily a mouthful from a small flask she was already pressing to his lips. Steed leaned forward and shook him, rather roughly, intent on making the most of the disoriented awareness that the sedative would soon smother.

"We are here to help, sir…" Steed showed him the wad of money, read aloud the address on the note found in the windcheater. The eyes, wild, did not seem able to focus on him yet. It was worth a try, anyway, and he persisted.

"Got this from Expefarmax? Is this where you were asked to go? We can help you get there safely…"

"Oh brother… " A fading moan, a twitching mouth, the unfocussed eyes closing back on a blank stare. There would be nothing more forthcoming. 

"Had I known, I would have gone easier on him" grumbled Steed. He eased back their charge on the Bentley's back seat and checked his hands and feet. "Now, Mrs. Peel, this is where we must part ways. Much safer. Mother's guardian angels, if they are lurking about, may try to catch up either to you or me. I pray you to ignore them."

 The prospect of dodging ministry agents did not cheer up Emma. Steed sensed it and he gently insisted.  "At the end of the day, Mrs. Peel, whatever rules we bend will not matter a jot. This may be our best shot at finding out what Warner's cohort really is up against."  He had written hastily on the back of a business card while talking. He now held the card out to her, but did not hand it over when she opened her hand. "You have a nearly full tank of petrol. Do not to stop anywhere until you deliver your companion at this address." Emma understood at once that he expected her to memorize it and she mouthed silently the number and the street name. She was familiar with the slightly dilapilated London neighborhood where this particular safehouse was located. Her spirits rose visibly at the thought.

"I will be waiting for you there", Steed promised. He held out a five-pound note pulled from the wad found in the windcheater's pocket. "One of these, folded in three, will be at the door's mailbox if I am in. If it is missing or should anything else go wrong, your fallback must be the Whitehall crew, without delay."

He knew that she wasn't scared for herself. Not his cool, level-headed Emma.  But she might fear for them if she guessed that this unexpected encournter was spurring him to act outside of the ministry's jurisdiction. He wasn't ready for the mildly amused look she shot back at him. "What is the matter, Mrs. Peel?" he asked, as mildly as he could.

Mischief danced in her eyes as Emma's slender hand slid into the sleeve of the windcheater. Her fingers stroke his forearm, just far enough inside the sleeve to tease the tiny scar he had nearly forgotten. Her lips pursed in mock reproach. "Steed, I will know well before I reach that mailbox whether or not a fallback will be needed."

He could not quite repress a smile. "Old spy's habits die hard, Mrs. Peel."

Emma sat back into the Bentley's driver seat. Her partner was already back in the van, steering it through a neat, three-point turn when, on a whim, she stretched over and coiffed the unconscious man stretched on the back seat with Steed's bowler. Peering down through the window of the van, the agent caught sight of his improvised alter ego, smiled from under the borrowed cap and raised a hand in a small salute. They retraced their way to the main road, the Bentley leading, this time. At the first intersection, without hesitation Emma chose the quickest route she knew back to London. The mirror sent her back the reflection of the van taking the turn she had chosen to ignore. Emma Peel knew then that she was truly on her own until she reached the safehouse.

-o0o-


	13. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

Author's note: _If you had read this far by November, you may want to take a second look. This chapter was slightly reworked to better mesh with the next one._

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 12

The usual signals, a window shuttered next to another displaying half-drawn faded floral curtains, proclaimed to the knowing eye that the safehouse was conveniently empty. Not that it mattered much; the three-storey ramshackle building was spacious enough for several occupants. In the safety of its garage, Steed was finally able to carry out a complete inspection of the van. The remains in the body bag presented all the chilling, telltale signs of a cold-blooded execution: the bound hands and feet, the twisted features on an awful bloodless pallor, and the hole neatly drilled into a temple. The corpse had been washed, he noted, and a small plastic bag lying on his torso held what appeared to be a smattering of personal belongings. This he took upstairs, to a small room furnished with a leather-covered rosewook desk. He sheathed his hands in a pair of gloves and started to retrieve and examine each item from the plastic bag.

The doorbell rang. A sneaky peek from the window confirmed that his Bentley was parked across the street. He swept the scattered content back into the bag, dropped it in a desk drawer and raced down the stairs.

"Mrs. Peel, what a pleasure". His cultured voice had the light-hearted tone of a greeting  at a garden party. "In good company, I trust. Shall I give you a hand?"

They walked to the Bentley arm in arm, without haste, outwardly just a couple enjoying a pleasant reunion. Emma noted that Steed was wearing his lambswool sweater but he had kept the driver's cap, shielding his face from the curiosity of most passers-by. He slid matter-of-factedly onto the Bentley's seat and lifted gently the inanimate body until Emma managed to lend help from the other side. With impressive skill and strength, Steed held the limp body nearly erect between them both, urging Emma to huddle and take small steps towards the safehouse. From some distance, their leisurely progression could have easily been mistaken as that of friends giving a helping hand to a slightly incapacitated friend in a bowler. The effect threatened to be somewhat spoilt when a ministry car slowed down at their side. Steed ignored it at first and. To Emma's mild amusement, the driver had to stare at them a while longer in order to make sure he had found the right man. His fresh faced slightly flustered, he lowered his window and thundered over the screeching babble of a two-way radio.

"Steed, your report is requested immediately…"

Steed turned towards the kerb, leaned slightly and flashed an affable smile. Anyone out of earshot would assume he was patiently answering a question from a disoriented motorist.

"Heavens help you, Potter. Is this what you call a discrete approach, lad? If you care to make yourself useful, join us inside. I have someone here who needs to be taken in custody. Be a good chap, though, and use the back entrance. You can start on the paperwork while I update the director and brew you a cup of tea."

The ministry agent, a little cowed, drove on, ostensibly in search of a parking space, while Steed and Mrs. Peel resumed their cautious walk to the safehouse.

"Clever that", murmured Emma mockingly. She had discovered quite early that Steed, as most field agents, loathed few tasks more than the paperwork surrounding arrests and searches.

"Elementary mentoring, Mrs. Peel" he said earnestly, much as if she had surprised a discreet act of kindness. "Besides, Potter needs the practice. If the secretarial pool is to be believed, his spelling is just appaling."

They carried their guest to a bedroom upstairs. Next door, Steed unlocked a cupboard and drew a set of forms from a binder, laying them out on the desk next to their captive's driver license. Emma caught sight of the name: Harold Marsh.

Potter soon joined them. Steed was already on the phone to Whitehall but he looked up and winked meaningfully at Potter and the desk covered in paperwork. The younger agent cleared his throat. "If you don't mind, Steed, I would prefer to hear it from Mo… the chief. He seemed, er, rather put out over your last twenty-four hours of work when I left."

"Be my guest." Steed graciously handed him the receiver.  From Potter's monosyllabic answers, Emma Peel inferred that Steed had managed to turn the situation, at least temporarily, to his advantage.

Her partner disappeared briefly into a room before returning to her side. "An interrogation team is on its way.  I need to brief them before they start but I'll join you as soon as possible."

Emma smirked. Interrogations were one aspect of the intelligence business she was content to leave to professionals. Besides, this had been a long day following a remarkable short night. The tension in her was ebbing. Steed, however, clearly had one more thing on his mind. A favour assuredly, she guessed, from the expectant expression under his furrowed brow. At any case, it was a request that he seemed very eager to keep out of earshot.

She nodded quizzically towards the room where Potter's soft swearing could be heard over the forms and Steed's chin pointed out to the stairs. They walked out of the building and took a few steps down the sidewalk.

"Bug-ridden, these old places" Steed offered by way of explanation. He walked her briskly to the Bentley. "You and I must find out, _before we release the body to Scotland Yard, who was the victim. It's been a long day but a couple of hours spent at his flat now could make all the difference to the ministry finding out what this case is all about."_

"Steed" asked Emma pointedly, "who is the ennemy now? Am I dodging a diabolical mastermind, some other section of Internal Security or Scotland Yard itself?" Her tone was cool and composed, but Steed's insides lurched unpleasantly. He had tried to walk a fine line, intent not to compromise the case at hand while keeping Emma Peel at arm's length from the rat he was smelling. In a perfect world, Emma Peel should have been basking with him in the good fortune that had thrown Expefarmax's latest victim and an accomplice into their hands. And right now, she alone could give them the edge he needed to wrestle control of the case out of MI5's hand.

"I told Mother how invaluable you were today, and he agrees that I, we, owe you some explanations before we involve you any further." Steed winced at her dismissive shrug and suddenly admitted that he could no longer prevaricate. He dropped on the seat the note found in the driver's jacket and the plastic bag found with the cadaver. "This was in the body bag. Handle it with gloves but have a look at the content: it may help you find more clues. Leave it all in plain sight at the flat, on the kitchen table perhaps. Gather anything else that appears informative and leave it for me to pick up. I need fingerprints but I am not at liberty to dust the place before the Yard gets to it and it would have been terribly gauche to get them from the corpse."

The strong jaw was set, the eyes telltale bright with the prospect of a breakthrough. Emma felt rather than noticed the tension, so uncharacteristic of her normally unflappable partner. _Oh, Steed, what is on the line here?_

 He seemed to read her very thought. "I took a calculated risk, Mrs. Peel, bringing these two chaps here instead of delivering them straight to Scotland Yard. I could really use some evidence that the victim was working under an assumed identity at Expefarmax, just like the dead agronomers, when I report to Whitehall tomorrow morning." Steed's grey eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth curled up slightly, "Naturally, it would also help greatly if, by then, nobody around this chap's flat could remember ever meeting the ravishing Mrs. Peel."

Brown eyes glinting, Emma leaned her head slightly to one side. "Of course. All in a day's work, isn't it?" 

_She will do it. He hadn't really doubted it but his own relief surprised him. _Only a couple more hours of this mad charade.__

"Will Scotland Yard show up at my door to take my statement in the morning or should I report with you to the ministry?"

He deliberately ignored the note of petulance, sure of what she wanted to hear. "I intend to be the first one to hear of your findings, Mrs. Peel, and report them myself to Mother. My best guess is that we will deliver the corpse to this address as soon as I learn from Marsh how he would have proceeded himself. A couple of hours' lead may be all you have. Did you have anything to eat on your way here?"

"I will be fine" she replied quickly. "Once I was sure that I wasn't followed I stopped and found the sandwiches and thermos behind the seat." With his usual foresight, Steed had asked a waiter to pack them a lunch while they were having breakfast. His features softened at her answer. The tension in her melted so quickly in response that she wondered, just briefly, what would keep her going. "You know" she murmured, "my own bed seems like a very good idea right now."

Steed's gaze held an alluringly foxy gleam as he left the car. "I could not agree more, Mrs. Peel. With your permission, I'll join you as soon as I hear what our catch of the day has to say." He straightened up and set the driver's cap at a jaunty angle before striding back to the safehouse as she steered the Bentley onto the street.


	14. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. 

Author's note: _If you had read the first draft Chapter 12, you may want to backtrack. I reworked it slightly as well._

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 13

Emma's little Lotus Elan circled the block twice before parking two streets away from the address Steed had left her. She had stopped by her flat earlier, dropped her luggage and methodically appraised the content of the plastic bag she had received from Steed. In a well-worn wallet, the face staring back at her from the Expefarmax identity card had an earnest look. The cheque book had few recent stubs, none of any great significance. An assortment of business cards and two credit cards. The two keys on a ring were probably those of a car and a flat. No address book, she noticed, making a mental note to keep an eye open for one later. Thinking ahead to next day's meeting, Emma spread everything on a black cloth and photographed the lot before collecting it and dropping it in a flowered holdall with her camera. The hot bath she was craving was postponed in favour of a quick shower and a change of clothes. The feel of fresh cotton on her skin offered some relief, but the tension rising again in her was a welcome sign that her alertness was back. She had emerged and slipped into her sleek Lotus, in the fading light of dusk, clutching the shapeless holdall and unrecognizable under a salt-and-pepper wig and large  tinted glasses. Her small car's nervy response felt more like a natural extension of her own will than a  machine, especially after steering the huge Bentley through country roads and city streets. Satisfied that the nearly empty streets would not hinder her plan, she left her vehicle in a quiet alley and walked back toward the block.

In the lobby, she considered for a thoughtful moment the column of numbers stenciled next to the tenant's printed names. One of the mailboxes was overflowing, a fact that instantly meshed into her plan as she checked her watch. Fifty-five minutes had elapsed since she had received his intructions. Time to move on.

With a shuffling gait the elderly concierge came out of her apartment. Button-like bright eyes in the weathered face raked Emma Peel up and down. A mildly disapproving voice, screeching from a lifetime of smokes, "Who is it for?"

"I have an appointment with Mr. Maxwell" Emma said pleasantly. "Insurance matters, actually, but he doesn't seem to be around. I should think he would not want it mixed up with his regular mail. I really didn't want to bother you…Would you mind it very much if I slipped some papers under his door?"

The old lady reappraised her and shrugged a lukewarm blessing. Emma nodded gratefully and climbed the stairs without haste, praying that her leisurely pace would encourage her watcher to turn around and close her door. She slipped a large manilla envelope under Maxwell's door and turned back. She opened the door to the lobby but looked suddenly back in her holdall as if to retrieve something just forgotten, making sure the door closed loudly enough. After a pause, she turned on her heels, took off ther shoes and stealthily climbed back upstairs to find the door she was seeking.

The lock was easy enough to pick but she winced at the squeal of hinges that could have used a spot of oil. Without turning the lights on, she started her quiet, methodical search: her flashlight sweeping the top of the wardrobe, peering into the pockets of clothes, shining over the last day's mail (mostly unpaid bills) scattered on an empty bookshelf and revealing the contents of the cabinet in the bathroom. Here and there were traces of a recent masculine presence, cigarette stubs, matches, a forlorn sock —small reminders of someone who'd been vital and warm. The phone rang, a shrill alarm through the silence. She ignored it but checked her watch as she progressed from the bedroom to the kitchen. Tucked away in an envelope beneath a pile of boxer shorts, a small stack of rather interesting photographs yielded a few duplicates worth setting aside. In the refrigerator two small plastic containers, tucked between cello-wrapped, pre-made white bread sandwiches, attracted her attention. She pocketed them as well.

A faint but distinct rumble was growing ominously louder outside. Following Steed's instructions, she left the plastic property bag in full sight on the kitchen table. After changing into a dark, body-hugging suit, she hung her earlier suit of clothes in the closet, leaving on the floor the flowered holdall in which she had gathered evidence. Without any hesitation, she returned to the kitchen and slipped out the back door to the fire escape. The stairs under her feet were vanishing abruptly into darkness. Two floors away from street level she froze, realizing that someone was waiting for her, a faint silhouette huddled in the shadowy bottom of the staircase. She cast a look upstairs. From where she was, she could barely make out a thin rectangle of yellow light where she had left darkness but there was no mistake about it, someone had turned on a light in the room she had just left. For the space of a heartbeat, she wished that there was someone beside her. Not just anyone, naturally. _This visit had been quite informative so far; where was Steed when things were just about to turn really interesting?_

-o0o-

Steed asked Potter to drop him a block away from the flat where the body bag was to be delivered.  It seemed preposterous, an open thumbing gesture at the authorities, but Marley had sworn by every spirit and saint he could conjure that the same instructions, followed a couple of months ago at a different destination, had caused no trouble whatsoever.  The admission had not increased Steed's confidence one whit. A little reconnaissance, he felt, was definitely in order.

From his vantage point, the shabby façade of the building was barely visible, already dissolving in the deepening shadows. The neighborhood streets were nearly empty despite the pleasant evening weather. Fine location for discreet dealings, Steed mused, lauching into a relaxed stride towards their ultimate destination.

He cast an idle glance at his watch. To his mild surprise, the luminous screen confirmed that Emma was still around. In the building still, he wondered, or on her way back to her own apartment? He fought the urge to stop longer and work out exactly where she might be. Not quite a shiver, more like a gut feeling, but his pace picked perceptibly as his desire to complete a round of the immediate area of the building became more pressing.

-o0o-

A shadow materialized suddenly very close to her stalker, a dark angel conjured from thin air. Emma knew instantly and yet wondered how he'd got there without them hearing him. Steed had the man in a lock that she knew could easily break his neck. Without a sound, he slumped to the ground, unconscious from pressure applied judiciously to the carotid artery.

_It had been close but there had been closer. Now that she was safely back at her flat, blissfully immersed in a bath, Emma Peel left herself ponder the strangeness of what had  happened. It had been tense, but hadn't they been in tighter situations, her and John Steed both? Why then this strange sort of thrumming along her nerves afterward? _

When Steed had reached out for her, it was just as if he had been jolted and the discharge, sharp and brutal, had coursed right through to her. He had nearly leaped backwards, unsure of anything but relief. What could he say? He alone knew that he had just very nearly lost her tonight because of his secrecy. By all appearances, his suspicions had been correct. The thought that he should have warned her against relying on her burglar-cat skills throbbed dully through his brain as they walked back to her car.

His furtive hug before letting her climb back in her car had struck her as an odd gesture. Uncharacteristic from him, ever so careful, under the veneer of charming urbanity, to keep his emotions in check around his colleagues.

-o0o-

Potter had dropped Steed at his flat, eager to clean up and change. Despite his efforts, no amount of scrubbing seemed enough to rid him of the stench of the van. He knew from experience that the sensation was probably nothing more than a quirky olfactive memory but he couldn't stand the thought that it might still cling to him around Emma Peel. There were simply some things in his trade one never quite got used to.

By the time he showed up on her doorstep, it was nearly one o'clock.  Emma came immediately to the door, silk and lace barely masking her scent, the one thing he was craving right now. It didn't chase the thought of what had almost gone so terribly wrong but it reminded him of what he treasured. He closed the door behind them, put his arm across her shoulders and pressed his lips into her hair. She slipped her hands under his jacket, felt his heartbeat under the fine linen of the tailored shirt and wondered if he could detect hers, so great was her relief to hold him close at last.

"That was quite a sweep, back there, Mrs. Peel" he said smilingly, in the genial tone he favoured when he summed up their cases. "I picked up your bag. Overnight work for the forensic laboratory, before we return most of it to the van for the Yard to find. Marsh doesn't know much about Expefarmax, but he had instructions to remove some evidence. They won't know what to make of any discrepancies between his recollection and what we leave for them to recover."

  She stretched along him on her couch. He leaned over and poured them the obligatory brandy from the bottle already sitting next to glasses. Carefully, mentally picking his words, he tried to pick up the threads of the case as he now understood them. The words failed him, though, and instead he pulled a radio-telephone unit and laid it out on the table in front of her.

"Your stalker was from Special Branch". His voice was strangely flat. Emma turned around and saw only then how pale Steed was.

"The building was under surveillance", whispered Emma.

"I should have anticipated it, should have warned you against leaving as you did," the voice said, heavy and muffled against the sheer fabric, warming her back with his breath.

"We were treading on their ground…" Determined to coax him back to the case and  sensing a breach in the wall that her partner had maintained the last few days, Emma ignored the guilt that was clearly burdening him. Chastened, Steed seemed willing enough to satisfy her curiosity but, as was so often his way, opened up with a question.

"What did you make of your visit, Mrs. Peel?"

"A mole was collecting evidence on Expefarmax and was eliminated as soon as this was realized. Did you notice that his ID card was issued barely a week ago?"

"Any clue back there as to whom this mole might be working for?"

"Wouldn't it be faster to ask Special Branch, seeing that they were already onto him?"

"Possibly but I have a closer source in mind… Warner, for one, should have told us, from the start."

  Emma's eyes widened. "How would Warner know?"

  "I suspect that there is far more to this affair than the scientific angle that Warner asked you to help him probe. The man has an intimate connection with MI5. He sought us out, and you in particular, on their behalf. I had been warned that he was acting, more or less, as their courier. Judging from the sum of critical information that was witheld, it is clear that MI5 was after our bodies rather than some cooperation in intelligence."

 "Is this what Mother suspected?" Emma was visibly shaken.

Steed nodded grimly. "Who knows? Right now, I can't even guess how far he intended us to play along." His eyes, usually so pale, had darkened to a stormy hue as he spoke again. "My best guess is that we are being groomed to act as decoys. Expected to distract Expefarmax management and keep them from plucking out other MI5 and Special Branch field agents who are still trying to infiltrate it."

His words were measured, his tone even, but Steed's entire body language spelled his distaste and embarassment that such crude tactics had been used by colleagues to cover up shoddy intelligence work. He put down his glass and looked at her, striving to strike a wry tone of banter. "I am expected at Whitehall first thing in the morning. Regardless of the many toes I trampled, Mother owes me, at the very least, the courtesy of a chat." As he moved to embrace her, he wished the words hadn't sounded so bitterly hollow to his own ears.

 Realizing he had nothing more to say, Emma turned around to hold him back silently, suddenly unsure of whom was comforting who. Unable to think of anything much beyond the need to be there for him, she rose up fluidly and, gently but resolutely, led him to bed. Steed followed and sat down. His eyes locked on her, he let her start stripping him of his clothes. She was aware of his wariness, the mixture of guilt and aching need. The silky feel of her skin, the soft kisses on the familiar sensitive spots, her unique scent soon stirred him as they never failed to do. Sex with Emma, he thought fleetingly, was meant to be light and playful or unimaginably passionate. Not a refuge, not this merciful escape to some haven, safe and secret, where stinging feelings of betrayal were banished. Just now, though, her presence felt as natural as breathing and there was no sweeter balm than their embrace. At times like this, the intensity and impossibility of his feelings for her caught up to him. It troubled him vaguely, this revelation of a vulnerability he had not suspected and he didn't much care to dwell on it. 

As she dozed in his arms, Emma knew fleetingly that he would inevitably retrace his steps before dawn, an ironic imitation of the routine he felt compelled to maintain on their assignments. She thought hazily that she did not mind him leaving if, as had just happened, he could let down his guard enough to let her know how much he needed her.  As for tomorrow, or was it today already…? Sleep ambushed her.

-o0o-

As dawn broke, Steed considered his attitude of the last hours with the idle detachment  of half-conciousness. He had every reason, he told himself, to be deeply grateful for Emma's company. Resourceful and energetic, she was also mercifully free of the baggage he inevitably carried when it came to Internal Security. Although visibly troubled by his revelations, she had not seemed overly scared. He marvelled again at the unexpected relief he had felt while tumbling from confession (of a sort) to intimacy. Such a contrast to the strain he had endured during the last few weeks. As wakefulness creeped in, he conceded that his world felt a huge step closer to righting itself. He had finally shared with Emma Peel the perilously tangled knot of duty and loyalties woven into their assignment. Next to this, the prospect of facing Mother seemed nearly a modest ordeal

-o0o-


	15. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. 

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 14

Steed arrived at Whitehall all nerves charged. He saw no need to read the director's message, handed out to him nearly the minute he walked past the door. His long stride exsuded the usual nonchalance but his back stiffened unconsciously at the top of the stairs before turning towards the office door. With only the briefest of hesitations, he turned the handle.

  The familiar voice dropped like a guillotine, all jagged glass and steel. "I trust that you enjoyed your recent excursion, Steed. Regardless, I expected more discipline from an experienced agent."

  The director gestured to Steed to sit down but the taller man insisted on remaining standing. Steed was determined to use all the advantages he had coming, and height, at the moment, gave at least the illusion of a tactical advantage.

"With all due respect, sir, you warned me yourself that Warner's plan was nonsense." Steed said levelly. "Am I really expected to pick it apart without checking the facts?"

  Mother stared back, unflinching. Meanwhile Rhonda, impassive, was unrolling a map on his huge desk. Steed's comings and goings, and those of Mrs. Peel, for the last 24 hours were neatly plotted on paper, the time spent at each location recorded to the nearest second.

 "Why wasn't I told that MI5 had already tried to infiltrate Expefarmax?" continued Steed. "Is Special Branch running out of bodies to waste? Reduced to use us as a diversion, knocking at the front door while they keep trying to sneak in through the back?" He rocked back slightly on the ball of his feet, mindful to keep his tone clear of sarcasm.

  "Is this what you're making of it?" rumbled Mother. "Pretty unsavoury, from a fellow agency."

"Warner's file mentions four Expefarmax employees found dead, coincidentally from natural causes. I recommend that you request the coroner's report and see how he accounts for the fifth one."

  "Enough, Steed. We took you at your word last night, didn't we? You will have to let me take it from here. My point presently is that we could follow your every wretched move out there, but I could not have sent for you or _her had you been caught out. Didn't I alert you from the start to the fact that this is MI5's territory?"_

  Steed stood back, momentarily speechless. Somehow, he banked down the anger sparked by the director's words. When he spoke again, his voice was smooth and even.

"What's lying out there, sir, are the dregs from a patently botched intelligence operation. This poor bloke's last meal was salted with too much lead, barely a week after he was hired."

  "That bad, eh?" pouted Mother.

  "You did not know about the earlier undercover work?" Steed's tone was frankly disbelieving.

  "I read the same file you did, Steed. I was pressured, uncomfortably so, into offering support. I had questions, as you might expect, but my calls were not returned. Hence my early warning to you: proceed cautiously."

  "Well, here's my report. Succint enough to commit to memory if you won't accept it in writing. I visited only one field but it was studded with eastern European hardware. Crop monitoring devices, a patrolling plane and agricultural motorized vehicles that can double up as chemical warfare stations. If they see you coming, you could lose a platoon in there. If M15 has so little to show for five dead moles that they cover it up and come calling to you for more bait, a fresh approach is definitely in order…"

"Enough said. Neither MI5 nor I have a platoon to spare, Steed. Now that you have made your point, shall we discuss our options? Perhaps even agree on the best way to keep your associate alive, and you away from a disciplinary committee?"

Steed nodded, outwardly subdued, but Mother saw the light of battle in the pale eyes.

"Our catch of yesterday" the agent offered "acts acts strictly as an occasional undertaker between the routine deliveries of agricultural supplies. Ideal minion, eager to supplement his regular income and satisfied to be kept in the dark. I see no harm in releasing him, with appropriate instructions naturally."

"How much of this have you told Mrs. Peel?"

"At this point, as much as I told you. As you put it fairly well, it is quickly turning into a matter of self-preservation."

"Well, she signed the Official Secrets Act and we have never had any reason to complain about it, have we?" Mother growled. "I leave the degree of disclosure to your judgment, as long as you keep me aware of what you share. Feel free to impress on her that Special Branch trains a different animal from ours, shoots before asking questions and is always eager for a chance to put spy boys in their place."

Steed nodded and turned around. Behind him, the prickly voice rose again. "Oh.. and Steed?"

The tone was a giveaway. Steed braced himself for the inevitable.

"My brain is the proverbial sieve" The director's smile would not have disgraced a hyena. "Leave me a full account of your last two days and a summary of the evidence bearing on these dirty games. In writing, by the end of the afternoon."

-o0o-

There were still details to deal with before M15 and Special Branch regrouped. Steed went and put his house in order, completing the paper trail of the evidence he'd removed from the van and the flat, arranging for Marsh's arrest under official charges of breaking and entering. And the next morning, of course, a visit seemed in order to inform the driver of his release on bail posted by a conveniently discreet friend.

"Don't be surprised if the lads in blue visit you before the end of the week. Just stick to the story you gave us and it should be little more than a social call."

"You mean, I gone through all 'his trouble with you' wretched lot for nuthin'?" Marsh gasped, disbelieving.

 "Ah... We never made that clear, did we? We are like the second-degree cousins, the funny ones. Black sheep of the family so to speak."

The man rolled his eyes. Steed raised a finger to a placating smile.

"In fact, I recommend you forget about mentioning us at all. Who knows, if you play it right, my colleagues might even ask you to be their eyes and ears in the place… They seem to be running short in that department..."

-o0o-

Steed's report didn't spell out exactly how he'd gone about tying up loose ends. Details weren't usually required if you knew the trade and did things by the ministry book. When he was called into Mother's office, right back from seeing Marsh, he wondered if this case was an exception after all, until he saw that the director had poured them both a drink.

"Come in, Steed. You had noticed, naturally, that MI5 was especially interested in Mrs. Peel all along?"

 "Told me so yourself, sir. A case tailored to her talents, isn't it? Warner also made that clear on his first visit". Steed remembered it very well and rather sourly.

"Naturally. Perfect choice, didn't we agree? Scientifically competent and ready to turn equally lethal or ravishingly seductive as the circumstances require..." A deliberate pause and an appreciative sip. "So I tracked down Weber yesterday evening and asked him to give it to me straight." The hint of satisfaction across the wily face was fleeting but unmistakable. "Some of the evidence you two gathered came in handy. Used sparingly but most effectively, especially at the starchy club he favours these days."

There was no mistaking Steed's reaction from the rigidity of his posture. George Archibald Weber had been head of Operations at Special Branch for six years now, ample time for anyone at Whitehall to become aware of his style and reputation without ever having had to take direct orders from him.

Mother was not smiling either but his voice barely dropped as he went on. "He expects that Expefarmax will try to hire her as soon as the chief scientist sets eyes on her. It appears that the firm has been discreetly looking for someone with her qualifications for months."

His multiple chins wobbled towards the bottle. "Come now. Don't let the bloody stuff go to waste."

Steed did not pick up his glass. He considered instead the wisdom of walking right out of the room. Knowing where this was leading, he wasn't sure who he felt angriest with. Well, actually he was—Weber. Weber was a cold, amoral bastard and stood for all those aspects of national security the field agent had the most trouble with. But at least Weber was acting in character. The fury he felt with MI5 was clean and bright compared with the dark confusion that was engulfing his thoughts of Mother.

"When they approach her…" started the older man.

"_Who, _now?… Expefarmax, or Warner and Weber?"

"I just want to say that Mrs. Peel strikes me as someone who can make up her own mind." The clanking of the glass on the desk added a disagreeable finality to the statement. 

Steed rose. His tone was distinctly clipped but perfectly controlled. "Orders are orders, sir. I will let you know of any information I find myself sharing to help inform her decision".


	16. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. 

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 15

Conscious that dawn had long broken out and that her partner must be heading for Whitehall, Emma Peel made a deliberate effort to step back into a world that remained blithely unaware of the dangers she had just escaped. She knew from experience how life could get difficult when the action stopped. The familiar ebbing of adrenaline tended to leave behind questions that were easily eluded a few hours earlier.  

Right after breakfast, she turned to her easel. She had recently started a painting with the idea of capturing the vision of sun-drenched lavender fields Steed and her had discovered during a trip to southern France the year before. The challenge of recreating the luminous atmosphere through a play of colours, of rekindling the intense emotion of that first, stunning sight, had a definite appeal this morning. She wanted to go further than an impressionistic work and distill the feeling into an abstract form. She could already imagine her travel companion's perplexity at her effort, and smile indulgently at their unreconcilable differences on the subject.  Above anything, it was absorbing work and marvelous therapy after hours spent on a knife edge.

-o0o-

Steed phoned to let her know that his afternoon plans had collapsed under the director's request for a comprehensive documentation of their findings.

"How was Mother?"

"Angry. As he had a right to be." Emma could easily picture the indifferent shrug, a familiar punctuation for the pause at the end of the phone line. "But he listened. Asked me to curb my enthusiasm while he goes around smoothing the odd ruffled feather." Another short silence, during which her partner's features must have twisted into a scowl. "He also reminded me to warn you properly against M15 agents that go bump in the dark and those that lie through their teeth."

-o0o-

Steed had courteously asked her to excuse him for the evening, promising that he would make it up to her the next day. His regular retreats into his bachelor's privacy no longer surprised or threatened her and she wished him sweet dreams.

Emma had never had reason until now to ponder the arcane character of the British intelligence service. Refreshed by her artistic exercise, her mind seized the question while she tossed herself a salad to go along with a dinner of grilled fish. She knew of Special Branch's status as a division of the police force specialized in anti-terrorist work with broad discretionary powers, but her work with Steed fell in a highly specialized category. Nothing to acquaint her directly with Special Branch's guerilla warfare against the Irish Republican Army and its proliferating splinter groups. She could guess at the frequent tensions between officers and policemen on the ground and some of their superiors eyeing or protecting political careers. It really wasn't any different from the intrigues surrounding sensitive research in her company's area of expertise. But it was hard to imagine that the ministry's access to classified information did not extend to MI5's files on Expefarmax or to the Yard's records of an ongoing investigation.

-o0o-

Steed's face was unreadable when he showed up at Emma's flat in the late afternoon of the next day. He held a well-wrapped bundle of documents firmly under an arm but his umbrella swaggered threateningly from the other hand. His phone call, asking if he could come over for a working session and take her out to dinner, had the comforting tone of normalcy but, now, Emma realized at first sight that some inner storm must be brewing. They had not seen each other since the night of her nocturnal escape and, quite certain that he would not admit spontaneously to personal turmoil, she decided to take her time in choosing the right moment.

He claimed back the bundle she had received in temporary custody while he undressed. It was a bulky package, delivered into his hands by a secretary right upon walking out of Mother's office. From the seal Steed had recognized its sender at a glance and immediately phoned Warner to confirm their next rendez-vous for the end of the following week. He couldn't delay much the course of events but the agent hadn't given up yet on the idea of coming up with new alterations to MI5's plan. Anything to buy time while they raced to put together a fuller picture of the ennemy.

Walking over to the table, Steed busied himself wordlessly, splitting the papers into several neat piles. As much as she would have liked to probe, Emma Peel was every bit as adept as her partner at avoiding the personal upfront. It was a much easier path to tackle the immediate work at hand. Around scones and tea, the next two hours of sifting meticulously through the documents felt almost like business as usual.

Steed was poring over a map of the British Isles where the properties of landowners approached by Expefarmax were highlighted in red. "Could these fields have some other strategic importance? Relay stations in a wireless communication network, perhaps?"

  Close behind him, Emma wound her arms around his waist and felt the immediate and quite distracting response. She ignored it pointedly. "Tell me, Steed, is it so… uncommon for the ministry to cooperate with MI5?"

The slight flinching, not quite repressed, of the tall body against her hip, answered her intuition. Steed turned around to face her, a little too abruptly to sustain any pretense of indifference. "Cooperation, Mrs. Peel? I'd say it's about as rare -and as desirable- as the plague."  His jaw clenched after adding with definite feeling, "These days, at least."

"But how do you handle it if it is ever necessary or… imposed?"

He looked at her soberly. "That shouldn't concern you. As an associate, _you_ have the alternative of not getting involved and, I might add, of pulling out at any point. The Official Secrets Act holds you to a duty of discretion, not blind obedience."

It would have sounded merely patronizing had she ignored the genuine touch of concern that tinged the "don't-you-forget-it" intensity. Encouraged, Emma persisted, determined to pry the door slightly further ajar. "I appreciate that, Steed. What I am wondering is, could this form of cooperation compel _you_ to obey orders against Mother's best judgment or your own?"

"In principle, it might have to look that way, if a chain-of-command extends above Mother" conceded Steed. "But the old boot carries some weight in those circles. This grants me _some latitude to contain the damage, should an incompetent ever request my services in the name of protecting Queen and country."_

Emma flashed him a sultry grin of acknowlegment. _We could make this easier you know, but you are a master, aren't you, at telegraphing messages while imparting a minimum of sensitive information?... _

His mood shifted instantly in response, the grey eyes flickering hungrily. _No cure for this…_There, he admitted it, didn't he?_ Woman, you could turn me on at the whisper of an endearment.  Let alone this devilish smile.  _He was already hot as she pulled him back towards the sofa. He drew her against him gently, his hips rising teasingly against her so she could feel the evidence right through their clothes.

Out of nowhere and rather disconcertingly, the picture of a cello-wrapped sandwich floated across her disjointed thoughts. Why, why a sandwich? Yes, she had left the silly thing behind at the flat, while collecting specimens kept in small containers in the fridge… An idea jolted her upright, astride her bewildered partner.

"Steed!" Her finger stayed the groan at his lips. "Instead of assuming that the causes of past deaths were somehow covered up, have you considered what these accidents had in common? A car accident caused by a loss of control, a heart failure, food poisoning…? Any of these situations could have easily been provoked by the ingestion of some botanical toxin. Shouldn't toxicological tests have been run on the stomach content or blood samples?"

Now consumed with the need to touch and be touched, Steed wondered for a second why he was so very good at wishing for what he could not have. But his eyebrows rose obligingly as he reined in his errant thoughts to follow hers. "Are you suggesting, by any chance, Mrs. Peel, that these chaps might have died from eating their greens?"

"Wouldn't that be a lucrative commodity to grow on an experimental farm?" insisted Emma. "Not nearly as obvious as the usual narcotics, especially easy to conceal if you hid the potent strains among look-alikes… Convenient assassination devices  for slipping in food or a drink, wouldn't they be?"

"There are plenty more possibilities actually," pointed out Steed, frowning in a fair attempt at concentration. "Marsh _did say something about picking up cigarette stubs left at the flat… I picked up a couple, and the Yard will have collected the rest but, if they are of readily identifiable brands, nobody will think of analyzing them."_

"I bet this is what this latest undercover agent had come to suspect. I should have grabbed that sandwich from the flat…" muttered Emma Peel, tossing back her auburn curls. She gazed at Steed, challenging. "Instead of lying here, maybe you should phone the forensic lab and ask for additional tests on the cigarette stubs. We could also go over the full transcript of Marsh's interrogation..."

Under her, Steed's expression had set into a curious cross of frustrated anticipation and rising incredulity. She barely had time to gasp a "Gotcha…" as a firm hand curled around her neck and a dark head rose to meet her. His ravenous kiss snatched her mischievous smile.

"We will check on it all, Mrs. Peel" growled Steed, "but we have run enough interference with MI5 for just now." His hands reached lower for the round firmness of her buttocks. "Our immediate orders are to lie low until we meet Warner again…" He captured her mouth again.

  Undaunted, Emma came up for air. "Was this order issued by a competent superior?"

  One hand's nimble fingers had run up and found their way under her blouse, expertly stirring a growing fire. Steed's voice was hoarser but he answered gamely. "Indisputably. And right now, Mrs. Peel, doesn't lying low feel much like the better course?"


	17. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. 

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 16

  His finger teased a tiny smudge of lavender colour on her palm. "You've been painting, haven't you?" His voice was a lazy purr.

"Always a spy…" She sighed, turned over and darted her tongue lightly to the tip of his nose. Steed wrinkled it back at her.

  "And _you_ have been brooding," she countered.

  For a moment his good-natured silence seemed to be the only candid answer he would ever part with.

  "Aren't we a team, Steed?" Emma whispered, beaming eyes deep enough to drown into.

  He nodded, slightly dazed, and answered with unaffected pride. "Should be obvious to everyone, Mrs. Peel."

  Lashes fluttered in approval and, suddenly inspired, the corners of her full lips curled up coyly.  "Is someone ignoring the obvious, then?"

  "Hmmm…" he sighed. "Someone who's already wasted four good men and can't seem to shake the habit."

  "Really unsporting," she agreed, "to break up a winning team…"

  "So let's not, I say." His eyelids drew the curtain on some private thought, more than likely about the wily and seductive witches that sprang periodically across the Peel family free.

  Emma raised herself on an elbow. "Could we fool him into thinking he got his way?"

  Steed opened an eye. "Homicidal_ fools_ are really not worth that modest pleasure, Mrs. Peel. Especially when it's _you_ he expects to plant on that farm, too far from me to watch your back."

  To his dismay, her expression puckered into a frown that showed far less displeasure than willingness to consider the challenge of this unexpected twist. Her next words did nothing to restore the pleasant mood she had just punctured. "We are meeting Warner again, aren't we? Why not hear him out before ruling anything out?" Experience told him that arguing would only arouse a naturally stubborn streak. Seasoned tactician that he was, Steed retreated back to courteous and uncommital silence.

  But Emma seemed to be after something more than an amiable truce. Still aglow from their lovemaking, she showed no hint of the somnolence that was tugging pleasantly at his senses. "There is," she added, "one thing left to settle, you know."

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow above a mildly sleepy stare. "Is there now, Mrs. Peel?"

  "Trust me," she said with slightly exaggerated solemnity, "I bring this up only because you are a man of your word," before melting once more into his arms. "Were you thinking of anything specific to make up for yesterday evening?"

  "Beyond this, you mean?" he asked, fingers running idly along the curve of her hip. "Well, what is your mood, Mrs. Peel?"

  "Oh, I'm ready for the unexpected," she answered ingenuously.

  "Classic symptom of adrenaline withdrawal," tutted Steed solicitously. "Well, your carriage awaits my lady but," he cocked his head at the sight of a bare breast where her blouse still gapped open, "though a lovely sight, you are underdressed for anything I might have had in mind."

-o0o-

  A pleasant tingle ran down her spine. Steed had known exactly what he was looking for, and where and when to show up. The Pickwick Club sported a discreet, unassuming façade on Great Newport Street within sight of Charing Cross Road. While opposite the old 55 Club, where top-flight jazz musicians still showed up regularly, it was something else. Smart and casual, a place for actors, writers, artists, designers, the lively and passionate people who were leading the social upheaval of the sixties. Three rows of table, a piano in one corner and a bar just inside the door. Not exactly Steed's natural environment but, as usual, he had the knack of blending in effortlessly. They ate, sipped Montrachet and watched two actors step up and launch into a biting stand-up routine, much of it ad libbed and directed at the agents and directors that held sway over their careers.  Someone walked to the piano after they sat down and motioned to a friend who obligingly hauled out a saxophone. Haunting, brassy notes rose and mingled with swirling smoke as the first fellow teased the melodic phrases from the piano. The duo made up with feeling what it lacked in virtuosity and the energy of the performance aroused an audience that was clearly inclined to generosity. When Emma emerged back at Steed's arm, the night was breathing the dark heat that often hung ahead of summer rainstorms.

  "Wouldn't have felt underdressed after all," said Emma Peel, breezily. Not that her escort looked one bit uncomfortable in his evening wear, she thought. The finely tailored suit hugged his broad, elegant frame without constraining it.

  "Enjoyed yourself?" Steed sounded distinctly pleased with himself.

  "Very much. I had heard of it turning into an interesting place under that Cavanagh fellow. Artists may be an odd lot but they hold a mirror back to those who surround them."

  His wry chuckle was barely audible. "Indeed. Nothing quite like smoke and mirrors to conjure an atmosphere…" 

  They beat the rain, barely, to her doorstep.

-o0o-

The forensic tests came back negative. Emasculated, as Steed put it, by Mother's dictum against any contact with the targets of Experfarmax's dealmaking, their brainstorming and the ministry resources failed to expose a weakness or a common thread other than the ownership of land liberally scattered across the British Isles.

-o0o-

"Trouble? Yes, you could say so." Warner wore a smile that failed to reach his eyes. "Another Expefarmax employee was eliminated earlier this week. Surely, man, you can see now why we can't wait much longer?"

  "Sorry to have ever doubted it," countered Steed without a hint of sympathy. "Any details worthy of sharing?"

  Warner waved a dismissive hand. "You are quite welcome to ring the Yard yourself, Steed. I must warn you, however, that I am under considerably pressure to see that you and Mrs. Peel get inside that wretched farm as soon as possible."

  "Our proposal is ready", announced Emma, patting a folder. "Steed is the owner of a property set in a sheltered vale, nicely secluded and endowed with an attractive microclimate. It should have some appeal on either ground."

  Warner leafed through the proposal that Emma Peel had handed him.

  "You should send this to Expefarmax with a request for an interview under the cover of your interest in a business venture. Declare an interest in the type of deals offered around to your peers. Flaunt your own deep pockets, appetite for risk and gift of discretion. My department must vet your letter, of course."

  Steed was scowling. "How am I supposed to have obtained Expefarmax's business address? We've kept our distances from their partners as you requested."

  "Your consultant heard rumours and put her ear to the ground… You would do well to praise her shrewdness and connections." He considered Steed pointedly. "Not too much of a strain, is it?"

  "Those connections, how well have you documented them?" 

  The question was met by a new document that Warner pulled from his case. "I would have delivered this earlier but thorough fact-checking was crucial. I hardly need to tell you that the best cover makes use of the truth as much as possible.This is the c.v. we want you to add to your proposal _when you visit_ Experfarmax."

  Steed scanned the page and raised an eyebrow in warning as he handed it out to Emma. She saw at once what he meant. Save for her unofficial service with the ministry, the document wove a compelling description of her interest in various scientific fields and her role as panelist for the National Science Foundation-sponsored review with her other real professional achievements. Steed turned back to Warner. "Do I get this correctly? You want them to find out exactly who is my consultant _after_ our visit?"

  "Indeed."

  "Isn't this more likely to alarm than lure them into any deal-making?"

  "We have weighed this carefully, Steed. Expefarmax must realize that their efforts at concealing the extent of their research is stretching their credibility. A contact like Mrs. Peel, should she offer to cooperate, could be a golden opportunity for the restoration of their respectability."

  Emma Peel intervened. "How about the risk of blackmail?…"

  "There are surprisingly effective tools for muzzling the British press when national security is involved, Mrs. Peel. I remind you that this is the presumption under which we sought your help. D notices will be sent around at the slightest whisper."

  "Unless you found something suggestive in the profiles of their other business partners, we need to start somewhere, don't we?" Warner waved rather ineffectually.  "Keep it simple, Steed. Sound them out for business, try to angle a visit of the grounds or offer their chief scientist a private meeting with your consultant. You must get him talking if we are to gain any insight into either his goals or his means…"

  Not sooner was Warner out of the door than Rhonda appeared seemingly out of thin air.

  "Mrs. Peel" she nodded, "the director wishes to meet you." She looked at Steed blandly. "Alone, naturally."

-o0o-

They watched the athetic, lithe stride of Emma shrinking down the hall. His partner safely out of earshot, Rhonda startled Steed with a question.

  "A frustrating case?"

  Perhaps because she had surprised him, he did not resist. "Stripping my associate of cover and leaving her like a lamb out to pasture to wait for cold-blooded killers? That's business as usual, old girl."

  "Ah? Some lambs you are, the pair of you," Rhonda's voice was so seldom heard that you tended to forget its distinctive throaty rasp. "I rather pity the wolves."

  If anything was more unexpected than Rhonda asking a question, it had to be a retort.  Steed turned back towards his office wondering if the ground had shifted under his feet. Something around here was seriously, but seriously askew.

-o0o-

  Emma Peel had just informed the board that she was taking a leave of three weeks in June from the daily business of Knight Industries. She felt a familiar pang of giddiness, closer to the thrill of a much anticipated holiday.

  She was surveying meditatively her neatly packed luggage when Steed rang to pick her up. As she peered out the door, she noted with amusement that she had correctly pictured how he would dress. In his lambswool sweater and twills, he embodied the finest of tradition-bound English countryside aristocracy. An unmistakable aura of affluence about him, he looked every bit the part of a landowner willing to move with the times and strike a bold deal to improve returns from his sprawling family estate.

  Her own choice, sleek and revealing, could hardly be described as conventional business style. Steed grinned in spite of himself; they had been asked to bait a trap and his partner clearly intended to strike at first sight.

-o0o-

  Steed elected to drive his Bentley to the experimental farm. There seemed little point in trying to look unremarkable while asserting his fictitious identity. In a minor concession to his character, he refrained from jumping over the door of the antique car. He swung it open, instead and promptly walked round to offer a gallant arm to his company.

  They were expected, having requested an interview the week before. Steed handed over their two security passes to a guard. The embossed documents had been delivered by courrier only that very morning at Steed's fictitious business address. They had being issued grudgingly, following several insistent conversations between a ministry secretary and ExpeFarmax. Beneath his outwardly genial manner Emma recognized Steed's watchfulness, keen to identify any evidence of a surveillance system that they might eventually have to disarm.

  A wiry, bearded slight man clad in farmers' overalls introduced himself as Dr. Phermagott, chief scientist. Emma Peel flashed him a beguiling smile and recoiled inwardly the moment he opened his mouth. Belying his down-to-earth attire, his voice was jarringly unctuous.

  "We have never had the pleasure of meeting," he announced, an affirmation rather than an inquiry." Steed and Emma nodded in unisson as he waved them to the leather chairs and returned behind his desk. "In fact, and at the risk of appearing unforgivably rude, I will confess that we are terribly busy around here." He joined his fingers and gazed at them with narrowed eyes. "I will therefore pray you to get right to the heart of the matter…"

  Steed started on an engagingly bright tone. "Name is John V. de Steed. I hold in trust a few thousands of acres in the Shropshire. It recently came to my attention that inquiries were made with landowners of the area about striking rather lucrative arrangements in return of testing new crops on their land."

  The doctor coughed delicately before answering. His eyes, close set and beady, darted back and fro between his two visitors as he spoke.

  "You are certainly well informed, Mr. Steed. Indeed, we must test laboratory-grown subjects under a wide range of conditions and, naturally, we occasionnally solicit partners to that end. Given the experimental nature of this research, there are, shall we say, hypothetical risks involved in testing new varieties of crops. Precautions are taken for which we compensate landowners. It is quite a straightforward arrangement recommended by our insurance company."

  "And certainly understandable" nodded Steed approvingly. He waved an impeccably manicured hand. "As a breeder, my interest runs especially to polo racing horses. I strive to keep abreast of the best available means of improving their performance. I have been looking for some time now for a bold, forward-looking team that would consider a partnership. I would be willing to lend my fields and stables to such a team, and learn more about the potential ramifications of your research."

  His interlocutor peered at him more intensely. A touch of contrariety showed through the courteous façade.

  "We consider every proposal, Mr. Steed, but we are, of necessity, very selective in our choice of sites. The usual practice, as you were informed earlier, is to leave the necessary information about your land holdings to our secretary. In fact, your insistence on this visit has been rather disconcerting."

  Steed leaned slightly forward and flashed his most disarming smile. "In this case, allow me to explain my position. My investment in breeding and training competitive polo horses is not negligible but I am quite ready to look beyond this to other ventures. Whenever I see the potential for a mutually profitable partnership, I make it a personal rule to meet my partner on his turf before returning the favour. Sound business practice, one might say."

  The scientist answered deliberately, talking more slowly and patiently detaching each word as if he was addressing a well-intentioned but slightly dim interlocutor. "Our experiments are what you might call fundamental research, Mr. Steed. In most cases they are years, and possibly decades away from commercial applications… " 

  "And the principles, I am quite sure, are well above my head" chuckled Steed self deprecatingly. "This situation is nothing new to me, Dr. Phermagott. Forgive my rudeness in not introducing immediately Mrs. Peel, who graciously agreed to join me today", Steed nodded courteously in her direction. "We met socially a few years back and discovered a common interest in country life. Mrs. Peel is exceptionnally well rounded in her scientific interests and one of the sharpest business mind I have come across."

  The doctor stared at Emma whose magnetic brown eyes were shining eagerly with professional interest. The sight seemed to divert Phermagott's attention momentarily from his immediate intention of dismissing these unwelcome visitors.

  "Mrs. Peel has acted as an unofficial consultant in matters relating to my lands. It would be a pity, certainly, to have invited us and not offer her even a cursory tour of your operations…"

  "Our laboratories are out of bounds, you realize" stammered Phermagott on an apologetic tone, mesmerized by cat's eyes. "Bioengineering research requires a high level of security. Contamination can compromise months of patient work. Even government inspectors are not given entirely free reign when they visit our premises."

  "Naturally" concurred Emma warmly. She added, with unfeigned earnestness, "I would have jumped at a chance to visit state-of-the-art genetic engineering installations and greenhouses." She tempered the note of regret with an utterly reasonable tone. "I could paint a far more realistic picture of prospects and risks for Mr. Steed after a stroll  through one of your outdoor pilot plots."

  Phermagott took on a genuinely pained expression. "This discussion is entirely premature. If your site turns out to be suitable for our purposes the necessary arrangements will be made to answer any question you may have."

  Emma Peel turned to her companion: "Steed, I'm sure you will join me in agreeing that we have taken advantage enough of the professor's patience. Do you still wish to maintain your offer?"

  Her partner eyed their interlocutor without a hint of impatience, radiating the irresistible, quiet confidence of a man experienced at judging a situation on the spot. His easy smile broadened as he stretched out his hand to Permagott while rising from his seat.

  "My interest in supporting the cutting edge of agriculture is simply good business instinct. Rooted, of course, in judicious advice. Incidentally, Mrs. Peel informed me on our way here that some details were omitted in the first draft. She will leave an updated version of our proposal with your assistant."

  "I sincerely regret not to be able to accommodate your curiosity, Mr. Steed", repeated Phermagott. "We will, of course, give your offer our thorough attention and..." 

  Steed concluded affably "… and hopefully we shall meet again. Business dealings were calling for me to travel in these parts anyway, so there was no trouble at all."

  They did not linger on their way out, save for a brief stop at the secretary's desk where  Mrs. Peel dropped a folder. The secretary opened it, quickly scanned its content and nodded blandly in approval. The doors slid shut behind them and they walked back to the gleaming Bentley.

-o0o-

  Steed changed gears smoothly as he manoeuvered deftly past a lorry.

  "How did he strike you?" asked Emma.

  "Polite enough fellow…" answered Steed neutrally.

  "… with the bedside manners of a rattlesnake" finished Emma suavely. "Well, our priceless location did not win us so much as a glimpse of the premises…"

"It still won us security passes rather than a diplomatic refusal. The chief scientist himself meets us, no matter how close to the vest Expefarmax prefers playing its cards," Steed pointed out. "My dear Mrs. Peel, our work might have seemed a little easier if he had shown us some of the installations from within, but his reluctance was hardly unexpected. We shall now wait for his reaction to finding out who you are."

  "Wait? Mother must have hung you by the thumbs…"

  "Wouldn't you have noticed it earlier if he had?" retorted Steed evenly. "No, Mrs. Peel, I am merely of the opinion that stirring a dirty pond only gets it muddier. Therefore, I am content to watch the toad crawl out.  Our chap Warner seems quite sure of his strategy."

  Emma groaned inwardly. Steed might not care a jot about the importance of microclimates to an agronomist, but tricky cases tended to bring up an unexpected fondness for metaphors.

  "In the meantime, of course, I shall stick to you like flea to an orphaned kitten."


	18. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 17

Emma had been warned by Mother himself that a discrete 24-hour surveillance would be necessary from the moment she and Steed left Expefarmax. It was understood that a rotating roster of agents, including the fresh-faced Potter, would be assigned to the task.

Steed hated to speak in vain but the circumstances, he felt, warranted a slightly liberal interpretation of his pledge of vigilance. If his partner were soon to court potential customers for Expefarmax, the least he could do was to lay out his own network, preferably under the cover of lining up attractive business prospects.And so, released from a routine debriefing and a tedious council of war where nothing new or useful was heard from the Yard or Warner, Steed arranged to call on Miss MacKay the very next morning.

Gloved fingers drumming unconsciously on the steering wheel, he carefully considered his strategy as the Bentley roared through acres of countryside. He had gathered a few photographs, snapshots he had taken himself and duplicates of those collected by Mrs. Peel, but he was still pondering the matter of presenting the new, and far more delicate, motive that now egged him on.

The building was standing proud and its gaily painted sign dangled slightly in anticipation of lazier summer breezes, heedless of the darkening sky.

The young woman saw him from behind the counter as he moved confidently among customers, all tall and dark elegance. Composed, yet defying him to comment on the over-brightness of her eyes, MacKay strode up and asked, "Still seeking professional advice, Mr. Steed?"

Despite his resilient good humour, Steed deflated a bit at the slightly mordant welcome. Why it mattered so much, he didn't like to think. As one used to retreat with practiced ease from self-revelation, he knew no to dissemble. As surely as rain was in the air, here was a potential ally and this was a moment when simple, unadorned sincerity was the obvious, safest path.

"In a matter of speaking, yes. I know more than I did last time, some of it thanks to your counsel. I am back because I think you may be able to help again."

Bantam stance, spraddled legs, head forward, she parried. "I was under the impression, last time, that we would only be discussing hardware...Your message, this morning, mentioned a trip back to London." But her words were ignored, or forgotten in the moment. She read the controlled urgency in his gaze and detected beyond it the distinct hint of hopefulness.

Against her every instinct, fighting the feeling of something sweet rising inside her, Miss MacKay sighed softly. "Well, then, let me get my coat."

-o0o-

Later Emma would remember with a faint shiver the drone of the caller, efficient but so cold and disembodied after her partner's comforting, amiable voice. Steed had called to let her know that he was heading back to the mews. Barely minutes later, as if his concern had signalled the start of a bizarre game the rules of which they were still waiting to learn, a lackey from Expefarmax had rung her up. _Would Mrs. Peel entertain, later today, a request from Dr. Phermagott's of a follow-up meeting to discuss a business proposition, over dinner?_

Unlike the hapless Warner, this caller had fully specified the terms of a rendez-vous, in a tone that managed to be at once lifeless and without appeal. Emma's rather mechanical answer was barely acknowledged before a faint click announced the end of the exchange.

Even the courteous brevity of the call was vaguely disturbing, probably calculated to keep it untraceable. _Absurd_, countered Emma, intent on keeping her galloping thoughts in check. Few words, after all, were needed to cast a dice.

She left messages at Steed's Whitehall office and at his flat, and went resolutely about the rest of the day's business.

-o0o-

Steed glanced at the mirror to make sure that he was being followed, feeling definitely more gleeful than worried.. At a steady five thousand revolutions on the counter, MacKay had kept up effortlessly with the Bentley's racing green through the drizzle that was now misting the countryside. Heel-and-toe braking, gear lever slammed through the box, she did not drive a feminine car and handled her souped-up manual Escort like a rally driver. She was now tooling through London traffic with precise judgment.

They parked near his flat. He showed her to his living-room; she assessed it with open curiosity, noticing automatically the flashing signal on the machine next to the phone. Steed fetched a half-bottle and poured them glasses, raising his to her health. His grey-eyed speculative look returned as the answering machine parroted the details of Emma's rendez-vous. Steed glanced at his watch and MacKay was not sure what she should do about it. "Has something come up faster than you expected?"

Steed nodded silently as he shared the last of the wine between their glasses. She picked hers up, her dainty hands cradling the fragile glass, and smiled. "Well, your car or mine?" she asked matter-of-factedly.

Making a decision in a split second was one thing Steed was good at. "Yours," he said just as naturally, picking up his own glass and finishing the wine. "I'll give you directions."

The agent soon took his eyes from familiar urban jostle to the attraction of her left leg as it thrust hard on the clutch pedal, admiring its firmness as she made the gear change, the relaxed curve of its calf after it was achieved. The motions had drawn her skirt far above the knee, and his gaze lingered on her lower thigh in its nylon sheath.

"Getting hotter?" The sound of her voice snatched him out of his reverie. He half expected to meet mocking eyes, but hers were firmly on the vehicle ahead of them, petal-soft lips slightly apart, a glimpse of small pearl-button teeth. He glanced at the small dial across his wrist.

"This is it," he announced. While his driver glided into a nearby parking spot, the agent's eyebrows rose in a show of disbelief that quickly faded to distaste as he took in the sight of the banal eatery.

"Oh dear," he said heartily. "You will, I pray, overlook this deplorable lapse in taste."

MacKay looked back. "'Below your usual class of dining, is it?"

"Beneath my usual class of suspect, I'm afraid. Would this ever be your choice for wooing a desirable business prospect?"

Scanning the room in search of a table, MacKay realized at once that Steed had not exaggerated. She then saw a face she recognised and froze, the length of a breath. Oddly familiar, long tapered fingers cradling a cup, his expression brooding, blue eyes set deep, a slim man was sitting at the same table as a striking auburn-haired woman. And while she was intent on the report under her eyes, Phermagott was just as intent on her, dissecting her down, feature by feature. Despite the obvious charms of his dining companion, the expression on his finely sculptured face was not lustful in the slightest.

Though aware of the solid masculine presence behind her, she could only guess at Steed's own, quiet appraisal of her reaction. He touched her elbow lightly, pulled a chair from a nearby table and motioned her to sit down. She threw him a quick glance but the classic features had already settled into a bland mask, pointedly absorbed by the chore of selecting among the lesser insults on the menu. After ordering soup, their small talk shrank to the minutia of her recommendations for the crops destined to feed his horses. Aware that she could carry the conversation effortlessly and still take in the view beyond her companion without seeming to, MacKay realized that she was definitely being drawn in cover of a discreet surveillance. It would take someone who knew him very well, she mused, to gather that Steed had any interest in the dull hum of the diners surrounding them. She studied the slight, foppish figure at the next table with renewed interest, almost certain now that she could place him.

As soon as they finished, Steed asked for the bill. A dozen questions must be dancing on the tip of his tongue, thought Mackay, but it was clear that they would wait. He leaned towards her, his expression openly apologetic..

"As you guessed earlier, things _are_ moving very quickly." He drew a business card from his wallet, handed it across the table. She recognized the name of a hotel printed in a spiky hand, next to Steed's embossed name and initials. "Can you stay in town, tonight? At Her Majesty's expense, naturally. I have plans for the evening, regrettably, but I need to show you more pictures in the morning, and possibly jog your memory a little more…"

They walked back to her Escort. Steed heard the engine being gunned, its spirited roar settle into a purr, fast receding into the traffic crowding the lane. At the street corner's stand, evening broadsheets were screaming their lurid headlines. He paid for a copy and retreated behind it into a patient watch.


	19. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 18

Emma Peel laid down the report she had just scanned with her usual efficiency to pick gingerly again at the limp salad. Phermagott had outlined rather pompously his efforts to fulfill the commercial potential of his scientific work, described at length his frustration at the difficulty of finding the right business partner. Someone, you understand, who could project his ideas into the future and fully grasp their potential impact on emerging biotechnologies. The conversation, if it could be called that, continued along the same pattern as the meal progressed from execrable service to uninspiring fare. The impression gradually deepened, nevertheless, that there was more to the ponderous patter than its spoken words. If she, Emma Peel, had been undercover, playing the part of a very clever, rather unworldly professor, this was exactly how she'd have handled it, from a distracted obliviousness to their surroundings to the naive assumption of her mercenary instincts.

After agreeing to contact him within forty-eight hours if she saw some merit in his business proposition, Emma Peel watched Phermagott weave tentatively among the traffic and wondered momentarily if she would rather walk or hail a cab. She hadn't covered twenty yards when she found herself face-to-face with a familiar expanse of smartly dressed shoulder and ribcage.

"Didn't he even offer to pay for a cab?"

She glided past Steed with practiced indifference, heard his tread catching up smoothly to hers. In a moment they were moving as one through the crowd that was now thinning into the early evening.

Looking up into his eyes, Emma wondered fleetingly who had ever decided that gray was a cold colour. "One could sell tickets for the look on your face, Steed," she said innocently. "Was there anything wrong with your meal?"

Her partner could have sworn that she hadn't glanced up at him once while they were in the eatery. Yet the warm brown eyes that were staring at him now were wide and bright, piercing him with knowingness. _Curse that watch_, he thought, vaguely irritated and nevertheless ready to concede that very little escaped his astute partner where he was concerned.

"I'm just appalled at his… lack of class."

"Since when are you expecting mad scientists to share your taste in dining venue?" Leaning slightly into the curve of his arm, she added in a mock theatrical stage whisper "Or would you rather to hear more? Over a proper dessert and digestive, of course."

"Always the shrewd negotiator, Mrs. Peel?"

The tension of the meeting was dissipating and the prospect of an evening that was now theirs was fanning delicious urges, heightened by the familiar pleasure of matching their strides. Catching a gaze that promised him everything, Steed felt a twinge of guilt at his resolve to keep his latest move to himself, but nowhere near enough to require a confession.

Emma was winking at him, turning up her nose, auburn curls swinging rebelliously round her head. "Negotiate? Shouldn't you first hear out the terms offered by your competition?"

Nearly a hundred yards behind them, Potter was turning on his heels with the absent, hurried air of someone having just remembered that he was expected somewhere else. Among the dozen customers that had left the eatery shortly after Peel and Phermagott, one man had followed Emma at a safe distance. At the sight of Steed joining his associate, the watcher had executed an abrupt about face, giving Potter the clear shot he had been waiting for. His small camera safely hidden, the younger agent lengthened his stride, whistling his own tuneless jingle to a job well done. A colleague was taking over his watch from him, and Mother had made it menacingly clear that his report would be expected on the double.

-o0o-

The half-light of dawn filtered through the bedroom window blinds. Emma's warm body barely stirred when Steed stretched out cautiously, the first move of a strategic withdrawal. His own senses still wrapped in the scent and taste of her, he had already gathered his thoughts and corralled them back to last evening's account of Emma's conversation with Phermagott.

As expected, Emma had been invited to return alone, and see for herself what Expefarmax wished her to promote. Eager to keep things moving along, she intended to confirm her visit for the next day. Meanwhile, MacKay was waiting for him, already keen to lend her help as a witness and, if he was any judge of character, apt to be persuaded into action. But until he had more to go on, though, it was safest for Mrs. Peel and MacKay to remain unaware of each other's part. _Ergo,_ he should leave now. If this was so clear, he wondered warily, why did it feel trickier than handling a team of courriers in post-war Berlin?

Steed reached the hotel in time to join MacKay in her first cup of coffee of the day. Any expectation of being met with nervous relief or twitches of suppressed tension vanished at first sight: she waved at him amiably and greeted with enthusiasm the ritual filling of steaming cups as the uniformed waiter approached their table. Courteously, Steed sat back as his companion considered the breakfast laid out among the glistening crystal and silverware. She deftly buttered a piece of toast and stared at him before taking a first bite. "You're not really a breakfast kind of chap, are you?."

He smiled. "You might just be right at that, but don't it spoil yours."

She nodded approvingly. "Perhaps we can make it a working breakfast. I mean, if you can switch on that remarkable memory."

"Not a difficult feat," he assured her. "You're quite memorable."

Ignoring the remark, she returned to the matter at hand. "That diner, last night, the little man, I remember meeting him."

"Tell me about it."

Between neat bites and a second cup of coffee, she explained that Phermagott had given a seminar and invited applications from her class, twenty-two months earlier. "It was our graduating year. And a fascinating presentation. But I was already committed to the family business: asking for an interview would have wasted my time and theirs."

"Anyone you know applied for the position?"

"A few of us were interviewed, but not anyone I would have kept in touch with."

"I'd be grateful if you let us check up on that." Steed asked for and signed the bill. He gave her directions for Whitehall, recommending that she leave from her room at least thirty minutes after his departure.

-o0o-

"Morning," Potter beamed, bursting in the office where a secretary was busily signing in Steed's guest. He grabbed a fairly clean cup and poured himself some tea, taking his time to better evaluate the company. MacKay stared back pointedly as she recuperated her driving license. Under the sharp gaze of Steed, Potter's flattering, wide-eyed interest settled back behind a prudently professional façade.

"Maybe I could spend the morning having a look at records with your guest," he offered as he finished his cup. "It's the farming business, isnt' it? Mother's already ordered the clearance she needs."

Steed didn't quite hide a mild irony. "Unusually generous of you, Potter."

"You know the old saying, a trouble shared is a trouble halved," Potter deadpanned.

"Mother?" asked MacKay, in the tone of someone who doesn't appreciate being talked about as if she wasn't there.

"Absolutely," winked the younger man, showing her the way and followed by Steed. "A large happy family, that's us."

-o0o-


	20. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 19

The tour of Expefarmax' installations took most of the day. Phermagott's movements and manner were entirely in keeping with what he was supposed to be. There was also, everywhere, the unsubtle hint of resources instantly available. If things were needed, someone appeared from nowhere in particular and brought them at the double.

"Ever heard of apomixis, Mrs. Peel?"

The word definitely rang a bell. "Isn't it this main thrust of Petrov's work on gamagrass, the wild relative of corn?"

A dry chuckle escaped from Phermagott. "I see now why you were sought out for that scientific panel. The Soviet Union still struggles to improve crop yields. It's no mystery that their very best geneticists have been assigned for decades to the study of corn and rice genetics. Some of our work dovetails very closely with their quest for self-cloning corn. A breakthrough would produce genetically stable cultivars and eliminate the costly requirement of cross-breeding each year to generate yearly supplies of fussy hybrids."

Seedlings were handled by technicians wearing surgical gloves and masks. A faint smell of ammonia was floating around a young woman in a laboratory coat who was parcimoniously adding solution from a dropper into rows of Petri dishes enclosed in a glove box.

"Inoculating cultures with various strains of nitrogen-fixing bacteria" explained her guide. "We first isolate micro-organisms from soil samples that were collected worldwide under our supervision." The tone turned gushing. "The microbial world teems with treasures just waiting to be plucked."

They reached a dark room where work benches were bathing in the glow of black lights. "Pseudomonas fluorescens", said Phermagott gesturing to rows of luminescent Petri dishes, "the workhorse of our experiments. A bacteria with the remarkable ability of injecting strands of its own genetic material into any plant inoculated with it. Far safer to manipulate than a virus, too. If we can modify it to carry reliably the alleles that will improve crops, we will have a powerful Trojan germ."

After lunch they walked outdoors, to the pilot plots. Remembering Steed's interest in the monitoring system, Emma asked about the pillars standing at regular intervals throughout the rows of seedlings.

"Ah, our monitoring system… Underground probes measure the soil moisture and temperature in the main root zone. Signals are transmitted near ground level by infra-red pulses and a central processing unit is programmed to act on the data to adjust the frequency and volume of irrigation."

"Designed by your team?"

"Indeed. We are blessed with a couple of bright lads well versed in robotics."

-o0o-

They returned from the outdoor tour to nearly empty quarters.

"Here," said Phermagott as he closed the door of his office behind them. With a key from his chain he opened a walnut cupboard. On the keychain, one brass Chubb key shone among many cheaper ones. The safe in one corner was also Chubb, a fine one, with its golden medallion glinting faintly.

A light tea had been laid out on a folding table next to his desk. Behind them a black shadow filled the eyehole to the door and stayed.

"Who is this?" asked Emma, skin prickling faintly with awareness.

"Security," said Phermagott, handling bottle and glasses. "Relax and cheer up, Mrs. Peel, we are merely looking after you." The feigned carelessness only made her more keenly aware of the cool scrutiny following her around the room. "My approach to team-building is simple. Buy the very best people, and buy them thoroughly. "

He offered a glass, raised his to hers. "But I would guess that money doesn't really matter to a professional in your position. Consider instead the big picture, Mrs. Peel. Joining us is an unrivalled opportunity to usher in a new technological era and bring unrivalled benefits to humanity."

She arched an eyebrow. "And what do you get out of this, doctor?"

"Profitable trade relations. You are as nearly perfect an ambassador for our current ventures as one could dream of." The honeyed voice tried hard to tone down a self-congratulatory note.

"I already have a full-time position at a firm that is itself at the cutting-edge of its field," pointed out Emma Peel, playing caution. "My consulting work for Major Steed is an indulgence, one of several scientific interests I cultivate on the side."

"And what would be wrong in turning such talents to profit? To a mind like yours, this should not be a particular exacting challenge. I gather that you're well broken to the games of a multi-facetted life."

The scientist topped up both their glasses, garden-party manners emphasizing without subtlety the verbal innuendos. "Thinking a few steps ahead is the key of our success. Testing new crops will require increasingly sophisticated monitoring, especially once they are sown on a large scale."

He stared at her, watching her reaction above the rim of his glass. "The future, clearly, lies in communication devices, linking remotely operated monitoring and watering systems from above."He paused briefly, as if he could not wait to deliver the blindingly clear answer. "Satellites, Mrs. Peel. Can you envision the immense benefits that might arise from companies like ours carrying out research jointly?" His eyebrows had risen high, above an expression brightened by genuine enthusiasm.

Emma raised her chin slightly, rather proud of her control. Had her interlocutor thoroughly done his homework, or was his just the rational, logical suggestion from an ambitious agronomer? Knights' latest work on remote sensing systems was a very recent development, still highly confidential…

Phermagott's unctuous voice had mellowed to a slightly bored drone. "We are planning a meeting, next week, for our private investors. Would you be interested in testing the waters, so to speak, as a member of our team? Following appropriate briefing, of course."

Distracted by the languid delivery, Emma missed a beat while still grasping the meaning of his last words. Her recovery was quick. "To be honest, I already had plans for this week-end. How much of my time would this briefing require?"

"You would be our guest for the coming week-end. I keep the entire team penned in, you see." The man gestured towards an imaginary projection screen. "We review test results from the latest quarter, select those of interest to our investors, prepare some projections and rehearse a presentation. We take the Monday off and gather again for the investors' meeting the following Tuesday late morning."

He paused, barely letting the words sink in. "Quite an insider's view into the business side of our operations, if I may say so. And for a rather generous consulting fee."

Penned in, under professional surveillance, an entire week-end… Emma's mind was reeling now, suddenly closer to the limits of her self-control. "This is all rather sudden. May I think it over?"

"By all means. How about calling me tomorrow, by 10 a.m., with an answer?"


	21. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 20

The sun was setting as Emma Peel steered her Elan back onto the country road. Phermagott, she was beginning to think, might be a dangerously intelligent man. His dangling of a business partnership was nothing unexpected after Mother's warning. But if he had intended to throw her off-balance, the sly suggestions that he knew more about her or Knight Industries than he wished to let on couldn't have been better delivered.

Irritation didn't stop her from noticing that she was being shadowed on her way back. Friend or foe, there was no way to tell, at least not without letting on that she was aware of the attention. Automatically, she pressed her watch's tiny knob and realized with a tingle who must be nearby. There was no Bentley in sight, however, and the vehicle trailing hers vanished from sight as soon as they reached the outskirts of London.

She listened to the message on her answering machine: Steed's apology for having made early dinner plans echoed in the room, concluding with a promise to call on her later. She found time for a light meal and a relaxing bath before the doorbell finally chimed.

"Busy day," she offered in greeting.

"You could say that", conceded Steed. Emma immediately sensed the barrier and opted to respect it, a decision far easier on a mind that was still brimming from the day's events.

He put down his briefcase, kissed her lightly and led her gently to sit on the sofa. Sitting across from her, he smiled encouragingly. Debriefing time. Her account was methodical, his attention complete, yet Emma was aware of the tension draining as she laid out the facts and impressions of her visit.

"A whole week-end in that den of murderers, Mrs. Peel?" sighed Steed, after her account of Phermagott's latest invitation.

She nodded, deliberately making light of it. "It sounds rather like the brainstorming session of an advertising agency team. Planning a promotional pitch, guessing what the customers want to hear, and giving away just enough to keep them salivating…"

"Let's hope then that it won't be catered by that dreadful eatery", muttered Steed as he unrolled the aerial photomosaic of Expefarmax's grounds. "How much of their facilities were you shown?"

Emma leaned over as her finger lightly traced a path across the large map. "Every above-ground structure and the pilot outdoor plots." She shrugged her disappointment. "Phermagott's descriptions matched the proposals described in Expefarmax' grant application. Their research on livestock feed, primarily corn and barley, is highly topical, but if I understand anything of the discipline, all of it is years away from commercial applications…"

"… making it crucial to find out what he pretends to offer to these private investors," completed Steed automatically. There was little doubt in his mind of where this was going. His distrust of Warner nothwithstanding, the invitation could not be rejected out of hand. How else would they form an idea of where things were headed?

His pensive gaze swept the map and rose again to meet hers. "The background checks on his investors have been trickling in, Mrs. Peel. It is not a crowd known for philanthropy or a fondness of long-term investments."

"Well, then, you never stood a chance," said Emma, mildly.

"Please, Mrs. Peel?"

She elaborated with gentle irony. "You made yourself too respectable by half when we visited Expefarmax. What were your odds of being drafted into a seedy investors' club?"

They stared at each other, wincing in accord and ironically unaware of sharing the same thought: Mother, the bloody old fox, would be pleased as punch.

"What should I keep an eye out for," asked Emma, "over the week-end?"

Steed went to the liqueur cabinet. He had spent the last hour with a team of watchers from the ministry. Their observations had spurred him to sketch out a plan which addressed Emma's very question.

"Our mobile monitoring station registered a noticeable weakening of the signal once you entered Expefarmax' grounds," he informed her, "but our watcher spent most of his time at the limit of the system's range. I need to get a more precise fix on the source of the interference and assess its strength.Our bugs will be next to useless on their grounds if we can't neutralize it."

"So we're looking for a powerful emitter of shortwave frequencies," observed Emma. "How close will you need to get? The headquarters are well within 300 meters from the main road, and I rather got the impression that the staff is security conscious."

Steed reached for his briefcase and pulled out a transparent overlay which he unfolded out over the aerial view of Expefarmax' grounds. "Our team tracked you without any problem while you were in that building.These red lines chart your path. The signal faded each time you left that main building, regardless of the position of our watchers. They drove past the main gate twice, at 12:30 and 15:35 while the signal was at its weakest, without noticing any improvement. Distance was not a factor."

Emma considered this briefly and pointed out two spots on the overlay. "I would have been inside this greenhouse the first time, and out to the pilot plots during their second pass."

He rolled back the documents, put them back in the briefcase and snapped it shut. "I plan to nose around during your visit, check their outdoor security for myself and get a feel for the grounds. You need only play their game. All being well, you'll never know I was there."

"I would rather know you were," she said honestly.

"The idea," Steed reminded her gently, "is to leave it to Mother's crew to keep track of us."

Emma eyed him curiously. Pawns in a game, they were. Mother had admitted as much. But how close to the flame was Steed expected to get in order to draw out Warner and his associates? Irrepressibly and incongruously, she yawned, a reminder that the day's excitement had drained from her like an ebbing tide. "Are you staying tonight?"

Steed felt himself relax in sympathy. "Am I invited?"

The question was uncalculated, no more really than his typical courtesy, yet Emma found it somewhere in her to answer pointedly. "I didn't want to presume," she said acidly. "You left this morning as if you had more on your hands than you had let on."

And what a morning it had turned out to be, Steed reflected wrily. Potter's wide-eyed keenness towards the young lady who had joined him at the ministry had been an unexpected blessing. By comparison, his own demeanor could not have been interpreted as anything else than courteous professionalism. Confident of his ability at keeping personal matters separate from work, he still didn't intend to reveal anything more than what Emma might have guessed.

"I hated it, frankly", he answered easily, "but that's what spies do." As soon as the words were out, he realized that they were flashing their own subtle warning He watched her over the rim of his glass, unconsciously steeling himself for a dignified retreat. Nothing to do now, he thought, determined not to be put on the defensive. Nothing to do, indeed, but let Emma draw her own conclusions.

But unexpectedly, just when she might well have rebelled in exasperation at his evasion, Emma Peel felt all her doubts scatter. That meeting with Mother must have unsettled her more than she cared to admit. What devil had just compelled her to question Steed's loyalties?

Going along with the director's main request and accepting Expefarmax's offer was a calculated risk, but one that had appealed immediately to her taste for action. And though he had made his initial reluctance clear, Steed had not only respected her decision, but was making plans to stay as close to her as possible.

_He must be seen taking risks for your sake_, the director had told her, making it clear that he wished his senior agent to appear vulnerable to some form of entrapment. If this was the real motive behind Warner's approach, Mother simply didn't want to miss the chance to expose a double agent and turn a suspected security risk to an advantage. Emma's instincts had first risen in revolt at his suggestion. Deception, after all, was their department, not hers. She realized now that they could not have found a better way to force Steed's hand.

The ease with which the director had outmaneuvered him was apparently of no concern to her partner. If Steed could take this in stride, shouldn't she have the honesty to admit which side she really wanted to be on? In volunteering to work again with him, hadn't she put her tacit trust in the man? Now, she could admit, was the time to keep her peace and move their partnership forward, towards safer waters.

Emma raised her chin, her expression softening as she closed the gap between them. "Well, if it suits a certain spy," she offered, "I'd like him very much to stay."

-o0o-

A truce could be as uncomplicated as the parties willed it to be, mused Emma, drowsy and grateful for the solid warmth of her partner along her own body. A few hours earlier, a dream had drawn her from deeper sleep to dark, labyrinthine visions. No more than a dim recollection now, danger had then seemed to close in, oppressive and shapeless. Her eyes opening wide, staring into the darkness, she had been momentarily disoriented by the suddenness of her own reaction. No stranger to nightmares, Steed had reached for her, his embrace automatically drawing her closer.

Emma smiled at the instinctive gesture, protective even now in the haze of their half-sleep. Thinking of the hours ahead, she needed to believe that they would somehow be aware of each other's presence: him, probing the security system for flaws, while she felt her way through the shadows of Experfarmax's business dealings. When the alarm rang off, uncanningly aware of her longing to stretch the moment, Steed leaned across her and shut it off.

Over breakfast, Emma finally mentioned Phermagott's allusion to her company's research. "Blast Warner and his plan", growled Steed. "I trust that you didn't rise to the bait?"

She stirred her coffee, distinctly aware that she had confirmed his hunch, but intent on keeping her own cool. "I ignored it, really. He didn't press the issue, just switched the topic to this week-end retreat."

"Playing mind games, then, was our doctor?" He drained his cup and rose abruptly, reached for his bowler and waved it emphatically. "Remember, Mrs. Peel, that someone high up chose to leave Warner in place for years. Shaking down the tree for one rotten apple is simply not worth blotting your company's reputation or your own."

His warning delivered, Steed smiled back automatically as he started checking his appearance in the reflection of the window behind her chair. She wasn't fooled by his seamless reversal to the routine of taking leave, looking for all the world as if nothing more lay ahead than a routine day's work at his desk. The deliberate lightness of their parting kiss was quite in keeping with their unspoken pact. When Emma gently closed the door on him, a vision of Mother's wolfish grin, doubtlessly floating miles beyond, fired her resolve. It wasn't for Whitehall that she would force herself to review her copious notes before setting out to meet again the dubious Phermagott.

-o0o-


	22. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 21

The rain-soaked fields scented the air pleasantly while the now familiar route sped towards her. It had rained this very morning, and when Emma Peel locked the door of her Lotus Elan in the car park of Expefarmax, the darkening clouds overhead suggested there was more to come.

As soon as she entered, the young woman was led to an airy conference room, tucked in an area of the research complex that she hadn't yet visited. She drew all eyes as a formal handshake was offered by some self-effacing, thirty-something associate, and was courteously led her to a seat. Everyone else was finding their own places amidst the rustling of papers and the scraping of chairs against the linoleum tiles.

"I'm Walter Peterson, acting secretary for the week-end" mouthed her greeter. Rather stiffly, he handed over a set of notes in a loose-leaf binder. "I have compiled this dossier for you. In addition to a history of the company, it summarizes our position on issues commonly raised by investors."

Emma Peel put the binder to her side, on the table. She made no move to open it, nodding instead in approval: "Preparation is everything".

Several seats away, Phermagott smiled thinly, addressing her as if they were the only persons present. "Naturally, Mrs. Peel, if you were to discover personal or professional objections to our business philosophy, I would prefer to hear them well ahead of the Tuesday meeting."

"That goes without saying," answered Emma, unruffled.

"Let's proceed, then." Phermagott's voice and bearing sharpened perceptibly. His stare swept the group before coming to rest on a colleague. "Forrester, what do you have to report?"

-o0o-

The afternoon was a blur of statistics and projections. Field trials, real estate deals, recent approaches and offers of partnerships… Expefarmax had fingers in many pies and its employees were fanning across the country to drum up business. Each one present, Emma excepted, was called upon to provide an update of his activities and describe new contacts made during the last quarter. Far from singing the prospects of spectacular scientific breakthroughs, the business side of Expefarmax focussed on shorter-term, profitable consulting services and land leases for crop and pest-control trials.

Discreetly, she leafed through her binder for some summary of the activities being described in the presentations. Finding none, she resolved to commit as much to memory as possible for further checking by Whitehall clerks. Not an easy task. Potential partners were cagily identified by company numbers. Some exposés were so polished that they might well have been an act put on purely for her benefit. This notion, however, was challenged by the barrage of questions from the rest of the group, volleys of them fired and fielded across the room with an aggressivity and a purpose that seemed genuine enough. The meeting finally broke up for tea and sandwiches, brought in by the receptionist on a small wave of their leader.

Most participants stood up, some visibly stiff-limbed and eager to pace around or leave the room, clearly relieved to shake free of the tension that permeated the air. Emma had just helped herself to a cup of tea when a familiar voice purred unctuously in her ear. "So, what do you think of big picture so far, Mrs. Peel?"

She raised the steaming liquid to her lips before turning slightly to look at her interlocutor. "I'd say it is a rather busy one, Doctor."

"We have launched many initiatives," acknowledge the man with a touch of pomposity, "but pointing to a single purpose, I assure you".

Emma Peel raised an eyebrow. "I had expected the challenge would be to convince investors of the potential of research that may not yield dividends for years", she admitted. "You have found surprisingly effective ways to sell the future. I am left to wonder, however, how this team can juggle so many balls at once…"

"An astute observation, Mrs. Peel, and the very reason I keep an eye open for potential recruits. I was actually wondering if you would object to holding some kind of rehearsal tomorrow."

The suddenness of the suggestion was met by a cool stare. Emma Peel was determined not to let the sly doctor run circles around her as he had done the last time. "Rehearsal?"

"Well, yes. I will admit to a nose for talent, but not an infaillible one. So I rather insist on putting my prospects through their paces."

He winked knowingly towards one of his partners who was approaching. "A mock interview with a group of investors, brimming with questions. Just some colleagues playing the part, of course… but highly realistic. We've handled a few, and know pretty much what to expect. To put it plainly, I'd like to hear how you might deliver the company line if you joined us, on Tuesday."

"That seems a fair test, Doctor." Emma inclined her head coyly towards the binder. "Am I to understand that I'll have a quiet evening to myself to read this through?"

Phermagott's features twisted into a slightly pained expression, "Oh, I would understand perfectly if you judge it too much to ask…" belying the words, his tone turned cautiously hopeful, "but when you accepted this invitation, I let myself hope that you were seriously considering my offer."

Oh, the pitch was perfect, thought Emma. Herself a rather gifted dealmaker, she could acknowledge meeting her match.

But the voice went on, mellifluous. "And quite aside from your scientific savvy, anyone in this room realizes that you would bring other assets to our group. As you are now doubt aware, even hardened businessmen are known to let down their guard in front of an attractive woman."

"On occasion," conceded Emma diplomatically, wondering all the same if her carefully cultivated, hard-nailed business reputation had reached the doctor's ears. She had projected a softer image, it was true, while interviewing scientific personalities during the recent months of touring research institutes and national laboratories. It was a part she could play a little longer.

"You would agree, then, that there would be nothing wrong in encouraging a natural leaning in a potential customer prone to making, shall we say, candid statements…"

"Definitely be a situation to play by ear," she answered with careful neutrality.

"That's all I could reasonably expect", nodded the scientist before adding brightly, "and, by chance, if you could wear something along the lines of what I remember from our first meeting…"

Aware of the breathless attention now emanating from the rest of the room, Emma suppressed a small shiver of distate and answered evenly, "I know exactly what you mean."

"And a last ground rule, Mrs. Peel: neither our guests nor my crew use their real names at these meetings. You are welcome to suggest a pseudonym for your name tag. Otherwise, I'll gladly supply one."

-o0o-

Steed drove to Whitehall without taking much notice of the traffic round him, mentally running down a list that needed no writing. He was grateful, in a way, that there were so many things to do. Preliminaries to the evening's activities would force him to concentrate on specific items rather than the reasons for selecting them.

The analytical part of his brain told him that there was no ground to worry yet over Emma Peel's welfare. A woman of so many talents invariably set imaginations aflame. Regardless of Warner's intentions, Phermagott was likely to weigh carefully how best to use her before making his next move.

-o0o-


	23. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 22

Presentations after tea turned to Expefarmax' research activities, a shift that rekindled Emma Peel's interest. She could quote from memory the details of their recent grant proposals and published abstracts, and was keen to discover if the team was meeting its predicted milestones. The reports, lavishly illustrated with outdoor shots of field trials, captivated her.

Dinner was catered in a different room, and the group split itself among its tables of four. Emma Peel was hoping for an opportunity to discuss what she had just seen. To her disappointment, she was left alone at the director's table. Neither of them was in the mood for small talk, and the meal was a rather strained affair. Over dessert, Phermagott finally apologized for his distraction and took his leave, assuring her that his personal assistant would see to her needs for the rest of the evening.

The sleeping accommodations and showers were underground. Emma was shown to a small room and the shared shower facilities: basic but modern and more than adequate. The tray of tea and shortbreads, brought to her room while she refreshed herself, was a reminder that her privacy was relative. She promptly changed into the pair of silk pajamas packed for the overnight stay and padded back to the small room. Curling up in the twin bed, directed the extensible wall-mounted lamp towards her reading assignment, purposefully ignoring the beady, indiscreet eye of a concealed camera she had spotted almost immediately.

Absorbed by the text, she tugged at her earlobe unconsciously. At Steed's suggestion, she had left behind the tracking watch. For one thing, the ministry boffins could not guarantee that the peculiar circuitry of the gadget would not trigger the sensor of a sophisticated bug sweeper. Even if she would have admitted it, she conceded that the impulse to check on his position would have only grown with the hours. If, as expected, she was being kept under constant observation, the repetition of even this casual gesture might arise suspicion.

-o0o-

Potter's eyes and brain were hurting. Between his shifts on the roster keeping watch on Emma Peel, he was cross-checking information on the case and reporting to Mother. The agent was starting to feel more than a little ragged at the edges.

Behind her napoleonic desk, the director was now thundering at him, a stubby finger jabbing at a page of Expefarmax' grant proposal. Reading upside down, the agent recognized a word among the bibliography enumerating the sources cited in the document.

"Novosibirsk, Potter… That's where Petrov, that corn-crazed Russian, elaborated his ideas about cloning… Any idea who or what else comes from that forsaken corner of Siberia, young man?"

Potter's thoughts gathered at once. Every agent in his section was regularly briefed on the hot spots of foreign strategic research. Who didn't know of the Siberian beacon of Soviet scientific culture? The very name whispered of military secrets, shrouded in the secrecy of a windswept, snowy remoteness.

"The watcher you photographed has been identified," growled the director. A single-lined typed sheet slid across the desk towards the junior agent.

"Shall I pass this along to Steed?" asked Potter automatically.

"Absolutely not. I am informing you on a strict need-to-know basis."

Potter's feeling of unease deepened. He was quite aware that Mother was busily throwing up smokescreens about this case, and nowhere thicker than around his senior agent. His own professional loyalty had to be, without question, to the director. Yet, if Steed's reputation was anywhere up to the stories circulating throughout the corridors of Whitehall, witholding information was not exactly in a subordinate's interest.

"Er, exactly why do I need to know this name, sir?" Potter asked, his thoughts turning even gloomier.

"If that clown either reappears or his whereabouts are mentioned, I want to be alterted immediately."

The oak-panelled door closed on a fairly dejected Potter. The director stretched clumsily across his desk to ring Rhonda.

-o0o-

In the dimly lit control room, the technician depressed a lever. On a screen, two pin points flickered, bright-white against the fluorescent green of a schematic layout of the complex.

"Exactly as I told you.", Warner exhaled above his shoulder, and with obvious relief.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the screen turned dark and lifeless again.

"I weakened the field just long enough to detect two tracking devices", explained the technician. He turned towards Phermagott. "It's now back to full jamming strength."

Warner fidgeted at the men's unnatural calm. "Aren't you going to take some action?"

"Should I?" Phermagott stared disdainfully at the unprepossessing figure hunched over the screen, still spellbound by the fleeting glimpse of their prey lying within reach. "This," he added contemptuously, "is Whitehall's way of keeping them on a tether.'

"Steed is dangerous," muttered Warner to the screen.

The technician tapped lightly at the screen. "'S why we let him roam around freely. All the better if he comes across anything planted for him," he added with a snicker. Another knob turned on the console sparked the screen to life again, this time framing a familiar face. "Peel is playing the earnest beaver, poring over her reading," he announced. "Nothing in her manner suggests that she is aware of his presence."

"What do you think of her?" Warner raised his chin at the screen and turned his head towards Phermagott..

"She'd obviously be a tremendous asset if she could be turned. But seeing that we first have to scare her out of her wits in order to get to Steed," the scientist's voice dropped to a murmur, "and that the lady is not likely to be of the forgiving type..." He shook his head, as though to dislodge a misplaced thought. "Quite a waste, really."

-o0o-

Rhonda stood at attention. "Power was interrupted twice, no longer than might be needed in order to pinpoint their presence."

Mother grunted a gruff approval: the trap was truly and well baited

-o0o-


	24. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 23

At 7 o'clock sharp, a metallic chime rang throughout the underground maze of rooms. Within minutes, the space became alive with the buzz of subdued efficiency. Emma surfaced from sleep, nerves tingling with the urge to climb back towards open air and daylight and leave this place at once. Instead she rose, stretched her limbs and dressed promptly while her thoughts regained some cohesion. Just in time, too. Peterson knocked lightly, carrying a light breakfast on a tray. Averting her eyes as the door opened, he blandly announced that her presence would be welcome upstairs by eight, handing over the tray with the awkward stiffness of one compelled to act beneath his station in life.

Emma settled down and chewed thoughtfully her way through the continental breakfast. There was no way, of course, to tell whether or not Steed's visit had raised any alarm. Would she be in any position to draw out their opposition or was she just acting out some elaborate charade? As soon as she was done, carry-all slung over a shoulder and the company literature collected under her other arm, she found her way to the stairs and reached the ground floor. At that point, a staff member noticed her and pointed her helpfully towards an office.

She stopped for a heartbeat on the doorstep, taking in the scene: tinted glass along one wall to conceal observers, sleek desk and two chairs silhouetted against a full-height view of the pilot plots stretching beyond the spotless glass. Decisively, Emma Peel walked to the chair behind the desk, sat down as if it was hers and opened with business-like briskness the binder she had carried back. Within a few minutes, an voice piped through an intercom announced her first visitor, and added: "Don't worry about taking notes. Interviews are carried one-on-one but each one is taped for later transcription. We're taking care of it."

The first two mock interviews ran pretty much as she expected. Each candidate introduced himself as a landowner who had heard of Expefarmax' activities through word of mouth and was interested in drawing additional income from their estate. The words came easily to her, many of the scripted answers read on the last evening slotted neatly in the flow of the exchanges.

Her third "client" was an older man who introduced himself as Colonel Foster. Sitting across from her desk, he chewed on the drooping corners of a bushy moustache while she ran once more through the company patter. "… and this is why we're best positioned to help you capitalize on the latest developments in this field."

As on cue the slightly glazed eyes of the colonel narrowed and the conversation suddenly took a very different turn.

"What's the extent of your experience, exactly, Mrs. Peel? I am told by Doctor Phermagott that this is, well, a side interest to your rather high-level position in a prominent family firm."

"It may well have started that way," answered Emma Peel easily. "And you could say that Expefarmax grows by enlisting talents wherever its finds it."

"It fears not fishing in deep water, then." Her interlocutor leaned back, eyes now twinkling while tobacco-stained fingers started drumming a martial tattoo on the chair's armrests. "Would you believe that I happen to know Major Steed? Not that I would bore you with ancient history. So, is the old boy seriously thinking of parcelling the patrimonial estate?… Some rumour going around the polo club... Almost swallowed my briar pipe at the thought."

_Why should Steed's business come up?_ Her mind was racing now, barely ahead of her rising curiosity, finding the words to meet the challenge.

"I cannot possibly speak for a potential customer," she pointed out reasonably. "As you may know, Expefarmax' standard practice is to consider a land lease as the initial step of a business partnership" The last words were intended to steer back the conversation to business but her interlocutor took no notice of them.

"I was rather hoping the old chap might show up at the next investors' meeting", went on the colonel with unforced good cheer. "Not that I regret the opportunity of meeting you instead."

"Well, now, what is to say that we might not all meet?" smiled Emma Peel, deciding after all to indulge the diversion a moment longer. "Major Steed and I tend to move in the same circles these days. I would not mind learning a bit more about his past."

"Never mind the old days, my dear," chuckled the self-styled colonel. "Really, now, I was faintly curious to find out what he is up to nowadays. Always the model civil servant, or is he contemplating new pastures?"

"I'll be sure to give him your regards, Colonel. Do you have further questions regarding any services we could provide?"

The "colonel" winked and shook his head before getting up from his chair. "That will be all for now, Mrs. Peel. I am sure you have other clients waiting."

"Well done," Phermagott's amplified voice drifted into the room, unmistakably tinged with irony. "In such a small world, coincidences are best anticipated. Ready for the next one?"

That next one also turned out to be the last. Posing as a consultant for a radio manufacturing firm, the self-named Crabtree confessed outright his keen interest in the remote monitoring stations engineered by the company. Emma Peel had read with genuine interest the detailed briefing on this topic, and the conversation quickly turned technical before her interlocutor backtracked to his client' broader interests.

"The firm I represent is interested in technology transfers to the Thirld World," explained Crabtree. "Does Expefarmax have experience in this area?"

"Developing countries should be one of the prime beneficiaries of our work," admitted Emma, "but cutting though their red tape isn't our expertise."

"Privileged contacts with governments," pointed out Crabtree, "that's the obvious key to foreign markets."

Emma smiled. "We see ourselves strictly as a knowledge incubator. It's our policy to leave to our business partners the delicate task of cultivating those contacts."

Crabtree's sharp stare sought hers and held it. "Are you telling me that you wouldn't be interested in seeing Africa for yourself, Mrs. Peel? Its needs are hard to grasp until you stand on its parched ground. I assure you that a single trip would change your life." His tone colored with a hint of condescension. "At the very least, you could speak of it with some authority."

Amused at the transparent provocation, Emma opted for wide-eyed guilelessness. "I can absolutely see how you might think that. Are you making me an offer?"

Despite himself, Crabtree broke into a wide grin and struggled gamely to regain a semblance of sterness. "Expefarmax should really consider it. An investment in your career, so to speak. I will, uh, remember to mention it to your director." He made as if to get up from his seat, but cast a reflexive stare over his shoulder, clearly expecting some cue from a third party.

"Quite satisfactory," announced Phermagott's disembodied voice. "Let's call it a day."

-o0o-

The sleepy Sunday traffic was blessedly thinner on the way back, but it was already late afternoon by the time she navigated the familiar urban maze leading to her flat. Watchless or not, she knew before opening the front door that she was expected. Sharp chopping noises were coming from the kitchen, a faint staccato briefly suspended a moment before Steed himself appeared.

"Ran out of eggs, Steed?"

"Sunday breakfast. A bath is running," he added with a slight bow, "should you feel so inclined."

"The blessings of tracking technology?" She walked breezily past him, towards the bedroom. It had been months since he had made himself at home like this, waiting for her to return. Truthfully, she had been too busy to miss it. But right now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

-o0o-

"The man is a definite control freak," concluded Emma ruefully, running a pen down column of numbers that now covered a sheet lying in front of her at the dining room table. "There was not a single opportunity to chat up his team. You should have seen them, meek as dogs at Crufts."

Judging from the kitchen that her mood fairly mirrored his own exasperation of a few days earlier, Steed appreciated in silence the symmetry of their reactions. Well, Mother would certainly see to it that the waiting game soon came to a head. And _then_, he mused at the Spanish omelette taking a last, deft leapt from the cast-iron pan, did anyone have an clear idea of the volatile force they were toying with?

The golden, fluffy omelette was smartly slid onto a serving plate and taken to the table. Emma, refreshed and changed, laid down a pen and stared at her handiwork before putting it aside, satisfied that she had wrung out the maximum from her memory. "Here you go… something to run against the land registry. The way they flaunt these leasing deals, one wonders what exactly they did not wish us to miss..."

"Masterminds can't resist an audience. What were you so keen to discuss with the underlings?"

"Hmm? Ah, some odd features in the field shots of their trials that were rather conveniently glossed over during the presentations…."

Steed slid a generous share of the omelette onto her plate and padded back around the table to sit across from her. "Would an outside expert opinion be welcome?"

"Very much so. I know who I might call on but," she waved a fork, "without pictures to show them…"

He shook his head. "If those land lease registry numbers are genuine, the pictures will be acquired, Mrs. Peel. It's imperative that we run over our memories of the place, as soon as possible and in excruciatingly detail. Incidentally, how early are you expected back there this Tuesday?"

"In time for lunch.They favour pitching their dreams to a greedy, well-fed audience."

"How considerate. Well, plan on an early morning wake-up call that day, in case the ministry manages to rustle up pictures of their field trials and an expert to match."

"Understood. I should mention that your name came up this morning."

"How flattering. I might have started feeling ignored."

Emma summarized the round of interviews, an account that left Steed unexpectedly silent. His reaction, in turn, set her senses on alert. Her stare bore through him, demanding that he not hold back.

"I don't like it, Mrs. Peel, " he admitted after a slight hesitation, "not one bit. Don't you get the impression that the entire situation was staged to draw you into speaking some specific phrases?"

The suggestion didn't make much sense to her but she filed it mentally and didn't insist. Thankful for her apparent disinterest, Steed considered the plate laid empty before him. He couldn't imagine that the conversation had been intended to draw information about him but neither was he ready to share with his perceptive associate the other explanation he had for Phermagott's stratagem. At least not until he moved to counteract the potential fallout of Mother's ruinous judgment. He turned deliberately to more immediate issues. "Before we go any further, I better get someone to look up those land lot numbers. May I use your phone?"

-o0o-


	25. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 24

Potter took the call. From Steed's tone he quickly gathered that that he was expected to read between the unscrambled words. Two things were made blindingly clear in a few cryptic sentences: sleep would be a foregone luxury for the next twenty-four hours, and Steed expected him to recover a small package and guard it with his life. The missing details could be trusted to reach him soon via a ministry courier or, if his colleague was true to form, some less orthodox channel.

Twenty-three hours later, the junior agent was counting his blessings and finding himself short. On the plus side, there had been no messy manhandling involved. In fact, the lorry driver he had tailed back from Expefarmax into London had been downright cooperative. Potter had flashed his credentials and requested the handover of a delivery that ought to have travelled quite a few blocks further, to some exclusive address in Chelsea. A wink and a cheeky "Regards to the guv'nor" wasn't quite the usual reaction to his bit of ministry-sponsored mugging but Potter's ego considered it fair trade for the prospect of a hot shower and one's own bed. No, the galling thing was to find oneself standing again in the director's office without the satisfaction of basking in the pride of a job well done. There was no joy in the room as Mother and an uncharacteristically white-knuckled Steed listened to an all-familiar voice rising as the spools spun obediently on the tape recorder.

"Bloody damaging," finally pronounced Mother, lips puckered in sour appreciation. "And this will be one of several copies, naturally."

The rest was left unsaid. Watchers would be dispatched to tail every Expefarmax employee but none could be arrested without arousing unwanted attention. In all likelihood it was only a matter of hours before a copy of the tape would reach a civil servant's office or residence or worse, a journalist. How soon after this would it be turned in to someone in a position to wreck the reputation of Knight Industries? With the right connections, two generations of sterling service to the nation's defence would be irretrievably tarnished by lies and innuendoes.

The director had only a fleeting thought for that outcome. Collateral damage was unpalatable but certainly nothing rare or unexpected in their trade. It would have been unthinkable to comment aloud on it, but he had to admire the self-control of the senior agent sitting stoically across his desk, his apprehensions shaped into a despicable reality. Mother was acutely aware that here was Steed as he had rarely known him. On edge, surely, but his temper cooled to lethal hatred. How much longer could the ministry count on the agent's loyalty?

"I understand that you plan to see Mrs. Peel in the morning, before her return to Expefarmax."

"Correct." The two syllables gave nothing away.

Mother grunted, his usual warning of some rebuke. "The aerial pictures you requested for the occasion will be ready. A rather expensive jaunt by the way, all these low flyovers."

Steed's eyebrows rose but his answer was bland innocence. "Really? I must make a note to look up the current budget allocation for rat-catching." He bent slightly over the desk, adding in confidence, "Maybe you should consider extermination? Not really my line of work, of course, but I hear it's faster and far more affordable than relocation..."

"Naturally," cut in the director, "there will be no mention of the tape to Mrs. Peel." The words dropped across the desk with the leaden finality of a dismissal.

"That would be pointless," agreed Steed, affecting to brush his bowler as he rose from his seat. He raised it curtly to Potter in mock acknowledgement as the younger man opened the door. "Any self-respecting blackmailer will ensure that she gets her personal copy."

-o0o-


	26. Chapter 25

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. _

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 25

_[Sorry if the timeline appears a little twisty here… Chapter 24 was taking place on Monday night. This chapter starts earlier that same day, before jumping to Tuesday morning._

Emma Peel would gladly have let Steed lounge around at her flat or take her out to lunch that Monday morning, but the ingrained discipline of returning early to Westminster Mews for a change of clothes paid an unexpected dividend. A message slipped through the mail slot informed him that a telegram from Expefarmax was waiting to be collected. The short errand completed, he was left shaking his head at the timing of the terse content: here was _in extremis_ an invitation to attend the next day's investors' meeting.

As much as the prospect of being closer to Mrs. Peel appealed, it was one more thing to keep under his hat. For one thing, he definitely had to plan for the grim possibility that one or both of them might not be allowed to walk awway from the grounds of Expefarmax the next day. A brief call to Rhonda was in order. She made note of the development and confirmed that his requests of the night before had been put into operation. Potter was running around at the head of a posse of MI5 watchers and helicopters were fanning across counties from the Channel to the North Sea. Mother might be acting like a two-timing fiend these days but he could still make a suprising number of people's lives a misery on his senior agent's behalf. It counted for something.

-o0o-

Plenty of ups and down make up the life of a Secret Service agent. Picking up some professional for a technical consultation at her Majesty's expense is considered menial chauffeur duty, ranking unloved below baby-sitting a dignitary at some function. But Potter saw no reason to complain on this bright Tuesday morning. He purposefully parked his anonymous ministry car tightly ahead of the sensible Escort waiting at the curb, and sauntered up the paved path to the door of the MacKay home. He spared a thankful thought for colleagues assigned to surveillance in the area: they had charted the MacKay household routine and shared some useful tips. As it was, Alison MacKay had her keys in hand and was ready to leave when Potter rang her doorbell.

"May I offer you a ride to work?" offered the young agent. "Steed has asked me to look you up. Something unexpected came up, and he is convinced that you can help us make sense of it."

"Don't you people ever use the phone?" said the young woman, rather more sharply than she intended. Recovering rapidly from her surprise, she pointed to her watch. "Well, I suppose that I can fit you in my schedule but I must first make a meeting at nine… You are welcome to follow me to the office."

Potter's neck flushed but he lengthened his stride to be the first to reach his car, and opened the door on the passenger side in an eloquent gesture. He was acutely aware that this was a delicate moment. "No need to worry about your schedule, Miss. Your business appointments are cancelled for the day. I apologised personally to each one of your customers."

He had not expected his efficiency to be particularly well received. Speechless and wide-eyed, Miss MacKay just stood by his car, rooted to the curb by the realization that her Escort was neatly boxed in. Potter elaborated bravely. "I called your office myself yesterday. You were out for the afternoon. Your assistant was kind enough to fill me in on your schedule and the particulars."

His words were finally sinking in, if the exasperated shake of her head was anything to go by. Potter waved vaguely towards the car door, not sure at all that he had struck the right tone. He kept on chatting, anxious to re-establish some rapport. "Their concern for you is quite impressive. Nearly every one hoped that nothing bad had happened. It took a little longer, but it seemed more proper than snatching you right from the office, don't you agree?"

He could have invoked MI5 or "Steed's wish" at any point during his little speech, but some stubborn instinct held him back. If she took offence, he was quite willing to face fully the brunt of her ire.

"Looking after me, then, are you?" There was more surprise than sarcasm to her question.

"Well, for a bit, I hope."

MacKay's expression softened. And she entered the car. Thanking his lucky star for her equanimity, Potter swiftly strode round the bonnet to claim the driver's seat.

-o0o-

At the ministry, John Steed introduced Emma Peel to Alison MacKay while Potter prepared the equipment. As soon as he flicked on the projector, Steed let out a low whistle: the ministry had come up trumps. "Make sure to get the address of the photographer and his pilot, Potter. This is the team you want Mother to assign to your wedding."

MacKay concentrated on the images projected ahead, tongue licking at her lower lip in what was, in Potter's judgment, an unconscious but an extremely cute little gesture. After a few slides, the young woman glanced at Emma meaningfully. "The crops are quite different from field to field. Certainly not what you would expect if these were trials designed to test hybrids under different micro-climates."

"We agree, then." Emma's relief was quite perceptible, a bridge thrown between them.

She was, thought MacKay, barely bigger than herself, all litheness and fluid motion, with the same graceful assurance that so marked her partner in action. But MacKay decided at once that Emma's hazel gaze shone with a tamed fierceness that had little in common with the outward serenity of Steed.

"I see something else, though," added the agronomer, her attention drawn back to the screen. "The galls on so many stems? A common enough bacterial infection. Still, it's a rather incongruous feature to see on test subjects…"

"Pseudomonas fluorescens" answered Emma with unaffected precision. "A bacterial vector for the transfer of genetic material that Expefarmax is working on customizing in order to deliver desirable traits to specific strains of crops."

"Experiments that might be run without the knowledge of the owners," interjected Steed.

"There is no legislation governing this type of research," pointed out MacKay automatically. Her gaze had wandered over to Emma's papers where some heading instantly captured her attention. "Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "Does Expefarmax still work on apomictic corn?"

As she nodded, Emma caught Steed's quizzical glance. "Self-cloning corn", she said helpfully.

"A dream to which no sober agronomer will admit," added MacKay with a shrug and a small smile, secretly relieved that her curiosity had not been rebuffed. "This would truly revolutionize the production of hybrid varieties of corn and barley. The Russians have championed the idea for years."

Steed glanced up. The reference to Petrov's work in Expefarmax' research proposal had aroused the curiosity of the Whitehall fact checkers. Their consensus, so far, was that it was just another a red herring, no connection having surfaced between Expefarmax' staff and any one Iron Curtain country or known agent.

"Corn is one of those most promiscuous of plants, Mr. Steed" continued MacKay enthusiastically. "It does not self-pollinate. As a result, re-using a crop's own seeds is a game of genetic roulette where the traits of the parents are quickly diluted in the next generation. To maintain high yields, each generation of seed must be produced at considerable expense by cross-pollination under carefully controlled conditions. Cloning would altogether eliminate this burden."

"And no Western country has picked up the gauntlet?" wondered Potter.

"Well, for one thing," answered MacKay, "the United States derive important revenues from exporting corn, especially major American companies which produce most of each year's worldwide seed supply. NATO members will think twice about alienating the American government and setting the stage for costly trade disputes."

"And there is also the more fundamental issue of a biological barrier. Apomixis is a trait observed only in certain plants and it rarely reappears in conventional hybrids. The latest developments in gene manipulation, of course, might be the first steps around this barrier."

But Emma Peel was already picking up her notebook, folder and pen. "I'm very grateful for your time this morning, Miss MacKay," she extended her hand spontaneously to the younger woman, "and I am sorry to leave you so quickly but I am expected elsewhere. May I call on you if I have more questions?"

"I don't see why not." A meaningful glance cast at Steed and Potter. "Your colleagues don't seem to much trust the telephone, but they definitely know how to reach me."

Potter was now fussing over the slide projector, removing the slide tray and returning it to an indexed cabinet, fully aware of the gaze of Alison MacKay. The agronomer, still faintly wondering if she had somehow blundered and brought the meeting to its abrupt end, started as Steed advanced on her. "Miss MacKay, may I make one more request on your time today?"

The corners of her mouth turned slightly upward. "Mr. Potter informed me this morning that he cleared my agenda for the day. What did you have in mind?"

"Your opinion on the potential value of a crop that Expefarmax plans to offer this afternoon to a group of investors. They might be flogging a breakthrough, a realistic gamble or an outright fraud. I need technical expertise."

"Do you have some prospectus, technical data?"

"There won't be anything on paper, I'm afraid. In fact, I expect that note-taking or recording any part of their presentation would be frowned upon. What I am offering is an invitation to join me for lunch at their expense, listen carefully to their announcement and share with us your professional opinion."

Some sixth sense now on alert, MacKay turned frankly skeptical. "What about Emma Peel? She strikes me as being very well informed."

"Trust me, Mrs. Peel will be there. But she will be working undercover on the villain's team. I need someone on my side to even the scales."

Her eyes were glinting now, her mind just made up. "Well, you do owe me lunch. And networking can't hurt the family business. I'm yours."

Steed smiled benevolently. There was no point in pricking such youthful optimism. He only had to make sure that Miss MacKay was seen home safely.

"Potter?" The senior agent knew full well that his colleague hadn't missed a word. "May we have a word, in my office?"

-o0o-


	27. Chapter 26

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. _

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 26

Emma Peel arrived comfortably early. The receptionist, visibly relieved, asked her to go immediately to Phermagott's office.

The door was ajar, and the man turned around swiftly at the sound of her tread. Her first thought was that she had stopped at the wrong door. Nearly unrecognizable in a custom three-piece suit, Phermagott was tying a silk tie into a Windsor knot. No laboratory coat for this meeting, thought Emma wryly. Here was a businessman's touch, a hint of luxury to add just the right degree of credibility to the allure of a speculative investment.

"Glad to see you this early, Mrs. Peel. There are two last-minute developments I must bring up before we join our customers."

He paused briefly, eyes overly bright. "Expefarmax is announcing today an opportunity to invest in field trials of a new transgenic crop. Top secret work that wasn't covered last Saturday. Truly outstanding stuff, ready for testing on a broader scale. Possibly a short step away from the patents for a new generation of lucrative commercial crops."

"Congratulations. Is there anything in print that I should see before we step out?"

"Too new, too ground-breaking for circulation. I am confident that you will gather the key points during the presentation. And fan our audience's interest afterward..." His voice trailed off as his gaze raked her with interest. Appreciative, he closed the distance between them and caught the scent of her fragrance, subtle yet suggestive enough to distract. Clad in black from throat to wrist to ankle she was lovely and, he thought perversely, ready for a funeral.

"Lunch is intended to relax everyone before presenting our services. Contracts are then discussed informally. That's when your personal touch will come to the fore, of course."

He paused again to fuss briefly at his cufflinks. "The review of Major Steed's file was completed yesterday: I am glad to say that his property meets our criteria for field trials. Since today's announcement might be of interest, I sent an invitation by telegram yesterday. He replied this morning that he will be joining us."

"Well done", purred Emma Peel, now feeling totally in control. She took the arm he was now offering her as they strolled out of his office. "I have wanted for quite a while to find out if that man ever puts his money where his mouth is."

-o0o-

Drinks had been served from trays carried around by white-garbed waiters and people were getting ready to sit down for lunch. The chit-chat, lubricated by alcohol was mostly mundane, punctuated by references to expensive cars, business mergers and the occasional sneer at the failed venture of a competitor. These men were more eager to project an image of success than to discuss the cutting edge science that Expefarmax was touting to the national research agency.

"Most educational." Emma's interlocutor gushed cheerfully. "I mean, who knew plants enjoyed such diverse sexual mores? I'm not ashamed to admit that my botanical education never went past the birds and bees," the man concluded, dropping an openly flirtatious look down her figure.

An easy one to handle, thought Emma with grim satisfaction, her body language coyly returning the blatant signals of interest. "I'm new to the team, actually. Do you know anyone else here?"

"Some of them. Consultants hired by companies to follow the competition. This business of false names is rather silly, I must say… They swap them around at each meeting, you know. If you don't care for this nonsense, you're welcome to one of my business card," he offered on a tone that was half-facetiousness, half-boredom.

"Why not?" Emma Peel smiled encouragingly.

To her amusement, the consultant lowered his voice to an earnest murmur. "Then I'll slip it to you when I leave. Better wait for the huddle when we grab back our coats. I will get a bollocking from my boss if I get myself blackballed for flouting the house rules."

"So there is profit to be made from what is heard here?" asked Emma ingenuously.

"You _are_ new at this, aren't you?" he frowned.

"Perhaps," she whispered as she turned around, "but I'm a quick learner". On that she tossed him a small wave and a wink, signalling that she had to mingle with the rest of the crowd.

From a new vantage point, she noted that Steed had arrived. For some reason, the receptionist was bodily stopping his entrance to the room. A couple of well-muscled employees, discreetly alerted, were rapidly homing in. Phermagott caught sight of the problem and walked over.

Steed beamed at him. "Splendid. I was just explaining to your lovely assistant how I lost my adviser to greener pastures." He waved in the general direction of Emma Peel who was moving from guest to guest. "No hard feelings, of course." His emphatic denial served with an exaggerated handshake, he stepped aside to properly introduce his company. "Since my last visit, it has been my good luck to run into a most competent successor. Alison, please meet our host, Dr. Phermagott. Doctor, this is Miss Alison MacKay."

The young woman flashed an apologetic smile as she offered her own hand. "I realize that I wasn't included in the invitation, doctor. Mr. Steed brought this up quite unexpectedly. But I have heard of your cutting-edge research and development. Will my presence cause any problem?"

MacKay was proud of her composure but she couldn't quite control her eyes. Reflexively, she turned back to Steed for reassurance. He soothed her with a placid smile, aware that she had caught something in Phermagott's expression. Nothing unexpected, really. But it wasn't recognition and it certainly wasn't surprise -- something darker, more like fleeting suspicion.

The scientist overruled his bristling receptionist with a commanding stare. "Well, we must make room for your guest of course," he told Steed. "Have a drink, enjoy lunch and let me know later what you think of our small show-and-tell." He stepped back among the crowd.

The receptionist advanced on them again, still exsuding venom. "No taping, no note-taking. Here is your name tag." She handed out a small card to Steed with obvious ill grace. "I will hand print a duplicate for the lady. That's the best I can do."

"A carnation would have done just as well, you know," assured Steed. She turned her back and walked away huffily. With a resigned shrug, Steed handed the card to MacKay. "My dear, will you do me the favour…?"

She pinned it with competence, her hands lingering a moment across the broad chest. "So", he asked, "who am I? Or, should I say, who are we?"

Looking up from the concentration she had given to the task she saw amusement darting like minnows in the pale gray eyes. Keenly aware of the body heat radiating from beneath the elegant suit, she took a step back. Oh yes, the card. He had read it at first glance, she was sure of it. Did he just want to hear her say it out loud?

"Warmblood."

The term was familiar. In her line of work, it paid to know these things. She cocked her head, trying to read him. At no less than five generations of registered bloodlines, a warmblood is an aristocrat among horses. The athleticism of the thoroughbred allied to the power and discipline of the early military horse, bred rigorously to meet the highest standards in the arts of dressage and jumping…

"Did you choose that name?" Her tone half-implied that he had deliberately adorned himself with a badge of vanity.

"I would never dare, Miss MacKay." The dusting of irony hinted that her suggestion was a mild affront to good breeding. "But it will do."

Hastily calligraphied, a similar carton was handed to Alison. With a sure hand, Steed returned the favour.

"I say that makes us an official couple. Shall we join in the fun?"

-o0o-

"WILD FIVE-ROWED, HIGH-PROTEIN BARLEY FROM AFRICA". The words flashed boldly on screen, simultaneously jolting two female brains, rows apart. The otherwise masculine audience was discreetly half-dozing under the subdued lighting.

_African_ barley? Emma Peel racked her brain. That just didn't sound right. Wasn't barley native to the Middle East and Asia?

Yet, the claim was there, in black on white, followed by pictures of sturdy-looking seedlings. An unexpected discovery by an Expefarmax team sent to harvest soil bacteria, said Phermagott before explaining more fully its significance. Enhancing germ-resistance and crop yields by back-crossing wild strains and domesticated ones was a well-known technique that had led to steady gains in productivity over the last decade. However, the conventional approach,from seeding to pollinating, took months. Years could go past before the qualities of several generations of new hybrids could be compared. Expefarmax, he claimed, was dramatically shortening the process by its exclusive gene-transfer techniques. Its greenhouses were already nurturing a spectrum of promising hybrids. A select few of the first transplants were performing spectacularly on the pilot plots surrounding the laboratory. Investors were welcome to offer their fields for more extensive trials and lock in their share of future commercial profits.

Here was Expefarmax' fiddle, thought Emma Peel with some satisfaction. The principle was theoretically sound but the dream of fast, guaranteed returns was a tissue of lies. No company would sell the results of genetic engineering without first patenting its technique. A ground-breaking way to transfer specific traits, this would have been a treasure.

She had avoided Steed so far, but the fact that he had not shown up alone had not escaped her. Admittedly, she would have enjoyed finding what MacKay might be thinking at this very moment, a few rows ahead of her. The lights would eventually come back on, but this wasn't the appropriate time or place to find out. Any hint of connivence between them would put the agronomer in serious danger.

What _was_ Steed playing at? Getting a second opinion while enjoying his cover as a suave playboy? Really, the man was incorrigible. Even though one had to concede that the young lady was highly competent... Anyone on the technical team would have quickly realized it over lunch. And at that thought, an angry shiver ran down her spine. Given the string of murders that had brought them here, making Miss MacKay a witness to Expefarmax' blatant fraud was neither audacity nor vanity. It was sheer, appalling recklessness.

-o0o-


	28. Chapter 27

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. _

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 27

The head of Special Branch normally ate at his club. Today, however, he was expecting some important news. Accordingly, he had cleared his office desk to make room for a meal of lean cold cuts and hard cheese. The office had been swept that very morning for bugs in anticipation of the call. The scrambler was on. One didn't overlook the obvious when the goal was so close. When the phone rang, he was ready.

The voice at the end of the line was slightly shaky. "Some… complication has come up."

"I'm all ears," answered Weber with something akin to a sigh.

"It's this bloody Steed. Showed up with a new woman at the investors' meeting. Told one and all that she is Peel's replacement as his agricultural consultant. The research staff chatted her up during lunch. She is the real thing: professional accreditation, experienced, and sharp as a tack. She is sitting through the sales pitch as I speak. Just the kind of competent witness we don't want hanging around."

Weber furrowed his brow in impatience. "Where is the problem? It stands to reason that she must not be allowed to speak to anyone else, nor reach her home alive once she leaves the meeting."

Snap decisions over the life or death of civilians was well, distasteful, but really, Warner should have known better by now. The civil servant had certainly made himself useful over the years.

"She drove in with Steed." The words whimpered into nearly a whine at the other end.

"Warner, let me make this clearer if I possibly can. Separate them. Throw him in a holding tank and eliminate her. Him I need alive. At worst, this moves the whole plan forward by a jot. From what you reported Saturday night, everything else has fallen in place."

As to the rising body count, Weber shrugged irritably, that was the unavoidable cost of striking a deal with the devil. Not that the deal was necessarily a poor bargain. Lucifer was probably just the fellow you wanted on your side if you intended to outsmart Steed.

-o0o-

Potter parked on the grounds of Expefarmax, on the heels of a panda car. He left the engine purring and, in lockstep with the county constable, walked in and made straight for the lobby. He raised a chauffeur's cap to the burly security guard who surged to stop their advance while Essex County's finest took charge.

"I am here to take home Miss Alison MacKay," said the constable, not intimidated in the least by the high-tech feel of the lobby or the aggressive stance of the guard. "Her father was involved in a serious accident. They share a rare blood type. She is urgently needed."

Expefarmax had a well-oiled routine for any type of inquiries. Its staff was well paid and drilled to remember that each minute gained made it easier for the direction to deal with unwelcome visitors. The security guard kept Potter in his place with a scowl and a menacingly raised truncheon, while he curtly motioned the constable to the reception. "Visitor for a Miss MacKay, luv?' he bellowed.

The dragon raised her head at the desk but her flat voice held no sympathy. "This is a research facility, constable, and we maintain a strict sign-in procedure. Nobody going by that name has been on the grounds today." Her finger reached for a button that instantly triggered a pager elsewhere. Before the policeman could add a word, she handed him the ledger open at the page of the day's comings and goings, slyly confident that the instinct to check it would buy a few more seconds.

-o0o-

Once the lights were turned back on, all the while chatting inconsequentially with MacKay, Steed had discreetly sidled to within easy reach of the door of the conference room. His watch beeped faintly. A flick of the opposite wrist silenced it. At once, with calm, controlled urgency he murmured. "Now."

Without any hesitation, Alison MacKay slipped out of the room. She had barely rounded the corner when two beefy men, the same fellows who had materialized earlier at the request of the receptionist, showed up at the door of the conference room. Parting the crowd, they glided silently across it, quickly assessing each face before moving on.

In the nick of time, judged Steed. Ready to run interference, he stood languidly at the door, facing towards the humming crowd of consultants and investors. Expefarmax' guests were either exchanging comments on what they had just seen or, most likely, slipping into empty mundane chatter. Some were hailing the staff, ready to be escorted to one of several offices where contracts were kept, ready to be filled with the specifics and inked with signatures. Throughout it all, Emma Peel was working her glamour, quelling a show of impatience or lending a flattering ear to some boastful claim.

One of the bullies, frustrated and now darkly intent on getting out, appeared suddenly and shoved Steed rudely out of the way. Unexpectedly and instead of following him, his partner went straight at the agent, pushing him bodily and deliberately out of the conference room, in an altogether different direction. Behind them, someone discreetly closed the door to the conference room.

-o0o-

Potter spotted the slender silhouette as soon as she turned the corner. He would have known the sway of that walk in any crowd. "That's her, constable."

The receptionist whipped her head around in plain disbelief. Faced with the evidence, she chose the safety of backing down. She listened stonily at the bad news being broken by the constable. In a fair show of shock, MacKay stifled a moan and stumbled past the guard into Potter's arms. The agent caught her and, placing one proprietary hand on the small of her back, gently turned her towards the doors under the approving eye of the constable. Without so much as a glance around, the trio marched out the doors.

Still mindful that MacKay might not be allowed past the gate if she were in his custody, Potter helped the young woman into the Essex County constabulary vehicle before running to his car. What would be the point of being on the angels' side if you couldn't call on the occasional spot of back-up?

-o0o-


	29. Chapter 28

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. _

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 28

It was late afternoon and the last guests were leaving Expefarmax. Above them, a small aircraft tore the greying sky at low altitude. For the last hour, descriptions of the vehicles leaving the grounds had been broadcast to squads of anonymous cars ready to pick up their trail. At the ministry, the information was being filed and cross-referenced as it streamed in. Mother was rubbing her hands.

-o0o-

Phermagott and Emma Peel had retired to his office when he had proposed a celebratory toast.

"Cheers to a productive afternoon, Mrs. Peel," he raised his glass to hers. "You did very well. Not that I had any doubt." He added somewhat teasingly, "Major Steed, however, did not seem to care much for the opportunities we were offering today."

"Perhaps some of your predictions," suggested Emma innocently, "sounded too good to be true?"

"Ah! But would the Major come to that conclusion by himself?" He raised his glass. "I find it supremely interesting that he had brought along someone knowledgeable enough to help him make that judgment."

Emma snorted. "Really? The Steed I know is a shrewd man, experienced and well connected. Is it any surprise that he would seek more than one professional opinion before making an investment?"

The scientist rocked on his heels and began to smile. That is, if you could call a smile the rictus slowly lifting his face.

"Her name", he said nonchalantly, "is Alison MacKay. Graduate of the Royal Agriculture College, works and lives in Hurley. My chief scientist tells me that she was a delight to chat up. It was no trouble at all to find out everything we needed to know in order to follow her home."

"Follow her …?"

He nodded. "Put yourself in my shoes. The information released this afternoon was highly confidential. We had to impress on Miss MacKay the need for discretion."

Emma took a careful sip. Phermagott couldn't feel her insides lurch, but the small, involuntary arching of an eyebrow didn't escape him.

He started pacing, moving well away from where she stood. Silence stretched between them, too wound up not to snap.

"Mrs. Peel, I take great pride in my record. Not only as a scientist but also as manager of a cutting-edge business venture. I have no doubt that we will deliver on the claims I choose to make." There was a distinctly sorrowful note as if she had reproved him aloud.

"Patents, I believe, are still the legal way of protecting intellectual property." Her words were deliberately cutting. There seemed no point in meekness. "There is a great leap between those and what I saw on offer this afternoon."

"We were fund-raising," admitted the scientist, "and there is some basic investing psychology at work. As you well know, an investor who puts up a substantial stake in a venture is likely to show more patience. Particularly if the prospect of returns is attractive."

"Those claims were exaggerated and certainly unethical. I can't understand why you even risked letting me hear this." She walked to the bar, put down her glass and crossed her arms. "I can't possibly lend my name or my time to this type of activity. If I had anything in writing, you could easily lose your public research funding."

Suddenly, his voice was right behind her, the light scent of his expensive aftershave mingling with her fragrance in the air between them.

"Of course, Mrs. Peel, I understand your position. And I respect you for it. But I think that you underestimate your value."

A pause. "Fund raising is essential to success, but I also put great stock in protection. Being investigated by the Secret Service, especially if the final report is sanctioned by someone with your reputation and leaves us smelling roses, is a formidably valuable insurance policy." Phermagott allowed himself a smug smile. "It was an extraordinary coincidence indeed to find out that you had worked a few times for the Secret Service."

The expression of denial that swept across Emma Peel's face was the reaction he had expected. He ignored it.

"If your investigation clears us, the Secret Service will not have the credibility to take another crack at us for many months, years even. Unless, that is, the Director and Assistant Director of an entire division admits to crass incompetence or collusion. And that would be nearly unprecedented. In fact, the ministry is more likely to do everything possible to stop anyone else from nipping at our heels. By the time wounds are licked, we will have made major political allies, in government and in other circles. Enough to secure privileged access to very broad markets for our products."

"And what makes you think that I would go along with this charade?"

"That voice, Mrs. Peel", purred Phermagott with deep malice, "is certainly one of your most seductive assets… High-fidelity recording happens to be one of my hobbies and I have taken the liberty…"

He went to his desk and pulled out a drawer. She saw the tape recorder. As he switched it on, Emma's mind grasped with full force the notion of where everything was headed.

Her own words, uttered in such confidence on Sunday morning, were ringing anew. Selectively lifted from their scripted answers, phrases had been meticulously transposed to the businesslike pace of a meeting that had, of course, never happened. Judicious editing and the splicing in of new questions had infused the result with entirely unintended meanings. The result, she admitted as a flush spread to her cheeks, was devilishly misleading.

"Copies have been prepared, of course, and are ready to be delivered to selected members of the Ministry of Defense and Home Security. Much more damaging and reliable than a leak to the press, don't you think?"

"It will be unmasked as a fake." She was proud of her calm tone, but she knew her eyes must be blazing. If there was any justice in the world, Phermagott would have shriveled on the spot. Instead, he glided across the room, refilled and held both their glasses in a show of civility.

"Mrs. Peel, I've no illusions that our little montage will stand up very long to the scrutiny of serious experts but I am confident that it can confound any routine analysis of a voice print." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "Top-flight expertise takes time and money, and competition is, well, so stiff. You know, as well as I do that merest doubts can exclude a company from bidding on sensitive contracts. They may even lead to the suspension of deals already signed…"

He turned around, staring in space as if in wonder, "And how many first-rate engineers will gamble away a promising career by staying with a firm in faint odour of scandal?..."

The memory of Steed's reaction, on Sunday evening came back to her with full force. She had naively trusted Mother, he had feared the worst. She remembered phone calls, his leave from her on Monday morning and his return the next one. Unflappable but preoccupied, as she had often seen him, but that had only been the surface. What hellish hours had he put himself through?

"What about Alison MacKay? And Steed? Are you buying them or blackmailing them?"

"I prefer to rely on psychology whenever possible. However, it's my experience that honest, first-rate minds are quite difficult to suborn. Guilt would plague someone like Miss MacKay, I fear. And suicide or a confession would have eventually drawn unwelcome attention to us. I may be too quick to judge but it's my appraisal that Miss MacKay could neither be bought nor blackmailed. Which left elimination. A very sensible solution if the Secret Service will turn a blind eye."

"And why would I be less likely to confess or blow my brains than Miss MacKay?"

Phermagott's expression turned amused and curiously tinged with respect. "For one thing, you are a much tougher, far more experienced businesswoman."

He finished draining his glass in a single, long swallow. "And to be blunt, genetic engineering or agronomy is not your career. Not only do you have many other interests, but one might say that your loyalties are divided in more ways than one."

Emma realized that she didn't care at all for this conversation. Not only was the nasty suspicion rising in her that Mother had led her entirely down the wrong path, but the conversation was getting uncomfortably personal. It was rather like being stripped. And her interlocutor seemed eerily aware of her discomfort.

"Ah, Mrs. Peel, I mean no slur on your character. I simply judge that you could come to terms with a compromise if you felt you had safeguarded something more precious. The enviable reputation of your company, the honour of your family."

She had grasped all that, she wanted desperately to fast forward as if _his _voice was nothing more than a recording. Her thoughts were now running to Steed, the one protagonist who had not yet been mentioned in this elaborate plan. Heavens help them, had Mother been foolishly, horribly wrong?

Again, it was as if her thoughts were being read.

"It does not matter much to me what happens to Major Steed as long as he doesn't prove too difficult." His voice turned wistful. "He is certainly not an easy man to read. To be truthful, from what I know of him, I would have given the fellow a wide berth under almost any circumstances."

"A bit late for that, though, isn't it?" she pointed out haughtily. "After this afternoon, he knows as much as I do. His elimination would not go unnoticed. And he is certainly not easily intimidated."

"But," and Phermagott's voice was now dangerously gentle, "he seems to care somewhat for you. And, perhaps, you for him…"

The impulse to shut her eyes tight was overwhelming. Warner alone couldn't have had access to so much, such private information. There had to be a connection with someone in the Security Service itself. And Steed would have his own idea about that. If they weren't going after him, there might still be a way out of this insanity...

"You will find that I am not adverse to a little bargaining when the time comes to seal a deal, " chuckled Phermagott. "And I have a proposition of a rather different nature to put to Major Steed. He will want to hear your opinion of it, I am sure. So, perhaps we should move downstairs and discuss it with him."


	30. Chapter 29

_Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and have just borrowed them for my – and your – pleasure. _

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 29

Phermagott showed Emma Peel the way down and forward. A white-gloved attendant caught up to them, carrying glasses and a bottle of single-malt. They reached a door guarded by two armed men. Past the door, standing in the bare room, Steed was waiting.

"Ah, Mrs. Peel." His greeting was cheerful as he walked up to her and gallantly raised her right hand to his lips. "A pleasure to see you again." He nodded meaningfully in Phermagott's direction. "If this gentleman works you too hard, you should know that there will always be room for you at my side."

His warm, insouciant words were an instant tonic, making it natural to reply in kind. "Really, Steed?" she answered reprovingly. "You seemed to waste no time in replacing me."

He gave her a falsely wounded look. "Oh, don't be so sure my dear. The truth is, I may not be able to count on Miss MacKay's services after today." He looked blandly at Phermagott. "She left early, you know. Something about the shoddy caliber of some of the business opportunities I was introducing her to. Most disappointing."

The taunt drew no reaction from Phermagott who advanced on them, and urbanely offered the scotch. Emma declined. Steed accepted a tumbler from their host who apologized at once for the lack of seating. "But I am gratified to see that _you_, at least, didn't leave prematurely" added the scientist. "If I asked my men to keep you with us a moment longer, it is because of other common interests I wish to discuss."

Steed looked politely intrigued. "Beyond high-yield barley?"

"Quite. And I'm not intending to waste any of your time, Major Steed. I wish to offer you a traitor. Hands and feet tied figuratively, but just as effectively."

He could have offered an exotic shrub for all that Steed appeared to care. The agent raised his glass, chuckling at the improbable suggestion. Phermagott glanced back stonily, obviously waiting for Steed's good humour to subside. Impeccable manners prevailing, the agent quickly regained a more sober expression. "Excuse my reaction, doctor but you really are full of suprises. Would this be another specimen picked up while travelling across Africa?"

"Not at all. Entirely homegrown, I'm afraid. From your own backyard, so to speak."

Steed took an appreciative sip and rolled the spirit in his mouth approvingly before swallowing."That's how business should be conducted." He cast an assessing look at the scientist. "We are talking deal making, aren't we? I don't have you pegged doing anything like this for Queen and country."

The professorial mannerisms had vanished with the laboratory coat. At that instant, in custom tailoring and polished shoes, the man looked nothing more like a shark. "Indeed. I'm seeking your professional discretion. A truce, long enough to consolidate my business interests."

"Warner is definitely not worth that much," pointed out Steed, amiably enough but with the air of one faintly sorry to disappoint. "You have already brought more harm to our fair shores than he ever will. That puts _you,_ in my sights, not him."

Phermagott looked unruffled. "I don't care for flattery, Major. And it isn't Warner we are talking about. That sorry character could never have wormed his way in government without solid protection. There is deeper rot you should want to rid yourself of."

"Well, we take care of our own dirty laundry," said Steed blandly. "And we are quite capable of inviting in Warner for a good old chat anytime it suits us."

Phermagott smiled nastily. "You might not have the luxury of time. Wouldn't the trail stop cold if something happened to Warner?"

"I would rate that a minor setback," countered Steed, dismissive. "His protector may be adept at turning civil servants but, as you implied, he isn't exactly picking them for their cunning -- or their steely nerves." He offered his glass for a refill which Phermagott poured obligingly. "In fact, I wager that we got as much out of feeding disinformation through Warner as any edge he may have given the other side. And I am confident that we would spot the next one just as easily."

Seeing his bargaining position crumble so swiftly did not sit well with the scientist. Momentarily thwarted, he turned scornful. "The threat is more serious than you think, Major. Your director has made some serious enemies at Whitehall, and he is much closer to ruin than you might think. If your division was disgraced under his leadership, your own future would be seriously compromised."

Steed considered this a moment. "Thus you offer to replace an internal threat by external blackmail? My dear chap, that's hardly a win-win proposition."

"Give the matter some thought. And since you obviously value her opinion, I suggest that you seek counsel from Mrs. Peel."

"That's quite unnecessary,doctor." A dangerous glitter shone in the wintry grey eyes, suddenly darker by shades. And frankly it's the lowest form of cowardice not to admit outright that you have stooped to threatening a lady." He turned to Emma Peel. "I saw it first at that eatery, and my opinion hasn't changed. I am used to a rather better grade of criminal."

Phermagott suddenly took a step back and, one hand on the door handle, delivered a parting shot. "Don't be too hasty to reject a deal, Major. Perhaps sleeping on it will do you good." His quivering voice was no less ominous than his initial smoothness. They could see the guards, still armed and at the ready, just behind him. Rushing them was not an option.

The door closed. They already knew that it would be locked.

-o0o-

Back to the wall, Emma Peel slowly slid to the floor. "Sleep? Here? I think you nettled him one whit too far, Steed. I was offered much better accommodations last time."

Steed looked down at her, entirely unrepentant. "And there was I, just thinking that we were finally making progress. Side by side, bearding the lion in his den and all that."

Her exasperation started to rise. "So far I only understand that we are being lied to. But I don't know quite who I would rather believe: Mother, or him? I was led to think that someone from your shady past was coming after you, Steed…"

"I am glad then," answered Steed rather tartly, "that you can be so easily reassured over my fate.It will be only a minor discomfort to choose betweem becoming collateral damage to Mother's downfall, or living with the betrayal of my personal code of honour."

Real of real or feigned, his discomfiture punctured her irritation. "If you want cheering up, let's not forget," she added slyly, "living in fear of being linked to the dark shady dealings of Knight Industries. But compared to a death sentence for Alison MacKay, you _are_ getting off lightly."

The cool rationalization of that murder was still much too close. "Aren't feeling you the slightest bit guilty for putting her in such danger?" Her accusing tone conveyed the depth of her concern for the young woman. She knew all the same that it was a waste of time to expect an apology. On a case, Steed usually acted the way he did for very good reasons, and it wasn't in his character to admit to any but the most flagrant exceptions.

The answer was predictable. "You know that someone less buoyant might find that lack of faith slightly wounding? Miss MacKay's exit was meticulously planned and, from what I could see, flawlessly executed. She will make a superb witness when this lot goes to trial."

And his assurance had the solidity of his characteristic, irrepressible confidence. It was enough to bring at once hazel relief to Emma's expression. A sight at which Steed smiled indulgently, secretly pleased to see that he could have that effect on her spirit and proud of the marvelous resilience he too easily took for granted. "Young Potter doesn't mind at all earning his stripes with a bit of derring-do," he added. "He seems to have taken quite a fondness to that pretty girl."

The moment stretched in companionable silence. Until, turning practical, Emma wondered aloud "And now, what shall we do about dinner?"

In response, Steed stifled a formidable, ungentleman-like yawn and finally sat down next to her. Shoulder to shoulder, they looked at each other, feeling by now decidedly tired. Positively sleepy, in fact, privately admitted Emma.

She barely heard his answer through a thickening, cottony fog. "I don't know about you, Mrs. Peel, but I have that growing feeling that a nap would do me a world of good."

He grimaced, fighting the torpor, as he slipped a protective arm around his associate, unsurprised to feel in response her slight frame bonelessly recline against his own. He pillowed her gently against his chest while lowering himself carefully, mindful of not crushing her once he gave up his own battle against what must surely be an insidious, airborne drug.

-o0o-

The smell of dampness put him at once in mind of a dark, musty cellar. Steed hated confinement and, more than anything, abhorred small, obscure cells. Too many nightmares, too many memories. _Too early to yield to any wilder thoughts_, he told himself sternly, determined to assess what he could of his surroundings.

The rough feel of burlap against his cheek went at least some way towards explaining the lack of light. "Mrs. Peel", he called, gently at first, then louder. His limbs were bound but not so as to rob him of all mobility. Experimentally, he twisted his body and with grim determination, rolled over and met a wall almost immediately. He repeated the exercise in the opposite direction, felt a wider expanse of cold concrete rolling against him before coming against a new obstacle, the other wall presumably. He squirmed again to bring himself around until the soles of his feet rested against one of the walls he had found. Clumsily rolling back and forth, he blindly charted the entire floor of what was now his cell.

And even though he would not have admitted it aloud, his spirit sagged a bit. They had been separated.

-o0o-


	31. Chapter 30

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 30

The softly spoken words were eddying at the edge of Emma's conciousness. "Not entirely unexpected… Foolish of him, really when I could so easily spirit the two of you away, nearly anywhere in the world. A mere ten to fifteen months… Enough time to make a fresh start under new skies, together or separately. Or return home, eventually."

_A fresh start?_ Not that the idea didn't hold some outrageous appeal. Yet, even in her current state of disorientation, the idea of her partner pulling up roots for foreign shores was too incongruous to contemplate. More English than mint sauce and Yorkshire pudding was Steed.

"Nobody could blame either of you for failing to stop me," continued Phermagott. "An untraceable amnesia-inducing drug would make it all quite convincing. By the time you fully recovered, I would be in an unassailable position, this shell of a company dismantled, its patents sold to the highest bidders, my staff and I vanished in anonymity."

_Absurd_, thought Emma Peel. Shaking the last of the drug-induced cobwebs, she raised herself on her elbows from the sofa where she had been laid out. "Why all the talk, Doctor? Surely, you can drug us and pack us to Timbuktu without asking for our approval."

Satisfaction at her recovery stretched the thin mouth in a smug smile. "Ah", he pointed out, "but I only got this far with the help of a well-placed mole and his control, a pair dedicated to destroying your section of the Intelligence Service. Just not the kind of character reference I favour."

The business-like bartering was entirely too distasteful. Realizing that she had no idea how long she had lost consciousness, the young woman casually lowered her stare to her watch. She wondered with a twinge if its signal was still jammed by Expefarmax.

"Naturally, if you turn me down it leaves me no choice but to fulfill my part of the bargain," casually added her host.

Emma Peel quirked an eyebrow at him. "I am afraid you credit me with more influence than I have, doctor. Steed can be intractable at the best of times, and this is hardly one of them."

"Why not let me be the judge of that?" concluded the scientist, matching her tone with an undisguised, mocking irony. He turned his sight back to a bank of screens glowing faintly on the wall. Her heart leaped at the sight of a hooded body hunched on the floor, clad in a familiar, if uncharacteristically rumpled, suit. And looking so oddly vulnerable.

-o0o-

Lifted roughly by a strong grip under his armpits, Steed was propped unceremoniously against the wall. An anonymous hand pulled up the burlap hood. His eyes remained screwed shut for stretched seconds, painfully assaulted by the bright lighting of the room... The soft sound of rubber soles receeded prudently. With discomfort he focused on the sight of a slim, familiar figure framed by the open door. With a small difference: Warner's expression bore the rapt look of one seeing a prize imagined for ages finally standing within grasp.

Steed's cold wrath at Mother's obsfucation returned, fiercely intact. Still, he knew better than to unleash it.

"Fancy meeting you here, Warner." The tone was casual, with a barely forced air of discovery. "Is this a courtesy call?"

Warner bit down on a reply, all euphoria dissipated. Willis had drummed into him the importance of giving nothing away. As much as he would have liked to revel in Steed's discomfiture, he wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of…

"Planning to get rid of me right here and now?" Steed's head was shaking in mild rebuke.

A nervous snicker shook the smaller man. "I don't know what you are talking about, Steed." He wasn't carrying a weapon and knew very well that he didn't have the nerve to pull on a trigger. And just now, he regretted it sincerely.

"It's just that unless you plan to leave your job imminently, one of us has better forget that this impromptu meeting ever took place. Would you believe that I had a most interesting proposition put to me by our host? A remarkable fellow, if you ask me: well-traveled, excellent taste in spirits, wide range of hobbies…."

"You," interrupted the smaller man, "are hardly in a position to banter, Steed."

"Just thinking of your own health, Warner." Steed made a show of trying to stretch his limbs against cramping despite their bindings. His head leaning to one side, he added mildly, "Always saw you as the trusting type. Shouldn't have mingled with Special Branch, though. Rough bunch, they are. Absolutely no sporting instinct."

Warner's fists unclenched, barely keeping in check a visceral reaction. Steed registered the hit with dark satisfaction. It was one thing for a spy to reconcile oneself to the undignified retreat of a hasty repatriation. But life behind bars, for complicity in killings unforeseen, was an altogether different thing. The prospect, growing more tangible with the rising body count, must have appalled Warner.

For a moment the waves of near panic emanating from the under-secretary were palpable, his hands fluttering convulsively at his sides. He recovered and drew a breath. "A tape of Emma Peel's interview…" The words died on his lips at the sight of Steeds' chilling stare.

His controller had been right, then. This _was_ the way to needle the reputedly imperturbable Steed. An odd confidence rose back in the double agent, the tidal familiarity of years spent in subterranean games, blessedly underestimated. Drawing on unexpected reserves, his voice firmed up. "A tape of Emma Peel offering Experfarmax the specifications of sensitive military technology is currently on its way to four influential members of Parliament."

"You will be a marked man for that, Warner", dropped Steed, in a dangerously soft tone. "You have my word."

"A dozen couriers are converging on the City," persisted his interlocutor. "You can have them recalled at a moment's notice, by simply signing a statement."

Steed favoured him with a bored look. "All this trouble for a bit of penmanship? You disappoint me, Warner. The word around the Service is that you can produce a very credible imitation of any of our signatures."

"One you could easily repudiate," countered Warner with a self-deprecating shrug. "Your word against mine? To be frank, I don't expect to be around and in a position to defend my good name. This way will save us all time."

_Ah, time!_ Steed sighed inwardly. Well, it was obviously down to Mother now to cast the net on their hosts. One couldn't be expected to do more than one's best to stretch out the hours. It was, most likely, time to find out at what cost…

Apparently warming up to his subject, Warner obliged. "Of course, you may decline to accommodate us. That would leave the task to Mrs. Peel, I am afraid. A testimony signed from her hand would still shake your section of the service thoroughly. But it would also thrust her role in this affair into the limelight, wouldn't it?" Warner peered intently at his target. "Tell me, Steed, what is the honorable course for a gentleman to take in such circumstances?"

"I would not expect you to have the faintest idea," answered Steed easily. "Why should she consider trusting you -- or Phermagott?"

Warner pursed his lips. "Ah, now… You and I, we know the score. The lady is no professional spy. I would wager that Phermagott and her speak the same language: science and business. Loyalty to one's country is rather a luxury, Steed, once your reputation has been slandered by the recklessness of its stewards."

Despite long-ingrained discipline, Steed found himself tensing up. The ropes binding him tightened tauntingly in response. The room was becoming airless, the walls subtly closing in on the two of them. He wondered if it was just his imagination.

Something uneasy in his expression apparently alerted Warner, who paced back towards the door, hands rubbing in anticipation. "In any case, by the time the request is put to her, the drug will have taken effect. The doctor put your recent sleeping spell to good use and, trust me, the effect will be rather alarming. Might help your associate overlook the discomfort of the tawdry headlines that might surround the outcome."

His hands opened in a conciliatory gesture. "Of course, there is an antidote. Easy to deliver and quick-acting, once you fulfill our single, very simple request for your signature on a statement that is the bare truth. You were aware, after all, that your director knowingly left in place a double agent for years…"

"Quite the clever lad you thought yourself, didn't you…" growled Steed.

"…aware that he recently declined to report to his superior the involvement in a covert operation of a civilian with contractual connections to the MoD."

"At whose suggestion was that? The head of Special Branch, perhaps?"

Irritatingly, Warner went on, unmoved, as he opened the door to the help posted outside. "By the way, I was informed before coming here that Mrs. Peel would be served a light meal. Would you care to join her? A bit of food and drink can so clear one's head."

-o0o-


	32. Chapter 31

Fatal Harvest

_Emma does some weeding._

_Steed shows off his roots._

Chapter 31

Two gleaming settings of bone-white china and brushed copper were set among the generous trimmings of a cream tea. The room was windowless, its lighting subdued but the food was fresh, its warm aromas an irresistible boost to morale. Emma Peel, already sitting, turned slightly at the sound of the door opening and damped down an involuntary flash of relief. Behind a very straight-backed Steed, his walk restrained by the barely loosened restraints, rifles were trained. Mute and efficient, an acolyte swept ahead of her partner. They were motioned to sit face to face, their hands left free but one ankle shackled to a sturdy bolted steel leg of the table.

Steed would have dearly loved to wink at his partner, reassured her in some small way. Regrettably, jaunty gestures were out of the question under the circumstances. In his rapidly deteriorating state, he wasn't sure he could manage more than an ineffectual flutter. Who needed to court humiliation when it had just been promised in spades?

Emma Peel sought his eyes as he settled onto his seat and reached for a serviette. She noticed with some alarm that the normally serene gray gaze was impossibly remote, the pupils unusually dilated. Steed was holding himself unnaturally still, evidently fighting back some influence. Emma took a dainty bite from a cinnamon scone, holding back a flood of questions. If this was some kind of test, it simply would not do to show weakness.

Phermagott appeared briefly, his expression openly calculating. He was pointedly ignored. A glance at the folder lying on the table and he disappeared, satisfied. All things in good time.

Facing Emma, Steed's stomach growled in anticipatory relief as he carefully buttered his own scone. He nearly gagged on the first bite. His mouth was suddenly dry as dust and the taste was ashes to his palate.

His hand reached automatically for the cup of tea quickly poured for him. Fingers tightened mechanically at the brain's command but the gesture felt weirdly remote, the skin strangely numb to the texture and weight of the cup. The first sip flooded and burned this mouth like acid. Senses in disarray, Steed fought for composure as he lowered the cup. An involuntary shudder, which increased as he sought to control it, shook him. The tea sloshed and spilled across his plate and into his lap, annoying him more than the pain of the burn.

The fervent hope that Warner was in reach of Phermagott held his thoughts while he struggled, eyes closed, to regain control of his breathing. The man had done him an inestimable favor by removing the element of surprise. More to the point, as soon as Phermagott realized the blunder, Warner would be the target of his ire. And that was a card too precious to waste just now.

Despite her growing alarm, Emma ignored the urge to bend over or offer help or sympathy. The body language broadcast across the table was unmistakable. _Keep your cool, as I am trying to do_. Still totally at loss as to the cause of partner's acute discomfort, she was growing distinctly impatient, a barely suppressed bristling Steed could feel like a sting. He pointed vaguely to the folder.

She grasped it, read the statement, weighed its implications. "Won't that throw me to the wolves, Steed?" she said in the iciest tone she could summon.

"In a few hours, everyone in government will believe you were playing the ends against the middle, my dear." His nerve endings were tingling intolerably and the words were clipped more thickly than usual. "You have something to offer. Might as well salvage what you can of this mess."

Her eyes widened slightly. Under duress, a concession on her behalf, whether inspired by guile or chivalry, was entirely plausible. Between a few more bites, she appeared to consider the possibility. "He is a bright man, this one. Someone I could work for, at least temporarily" she conceded, wistfully. "We could both leave with him, Steed, go to ground…" A tiny tendril of hope underscored the careful suggestion.

"You do that." The next words, ground out with visible effort, were tinged with his weary approval and something else, carefully unsaid. "But not I, my dear."

It was nothing but play-acting, yet the refusal stung like a slap. "What are you talking about?" Suddenly, the indignant heat blushing her cheeks didn't take any effort to muster. "The last two years have meant so little to you?"

_Nearly two, indeed. _And how quickly they had run. "On the contrary, Mrs. Peel. But the risks would be even higher if I joined you."

_Beautiful Emma. _How much should one dare put in a look when one's insides felt as if they were coming apart? He was painfully aware that he wouldn't hold out much longer. A quick acting antidote, the fool had said. One hoped that meant the physical damage would be superficial. Calling on years of training, he was carefully holding his expression in a stilted mask. He had to send just the right signal.

Emma Peel was willing to go on pure trust in him. This was not the time for rebellion. Yet she was so deep in this, manipulated at every step, her family's reputation put in jeopardy… Not getting even a transient sign of emotion from her partner felt unexpectedly desolate. The unfairness of it edged her words with sharpness. "What are you talking about, Steed? From the instant I sign this, you are heading straight for the gallows! How could the risk be higher?"

That stubbornness was as familiar as a summer breeze. Steed gentled his tone to point out the obvious. "Two undesirables will slip away more easily, Mrs. Peel. Three, as they say, is a crowd." This plea for her compliance, he knew at once, was the last he could manage. And at that, without warning, he collapsed face first onto the table.

Stunned, Emma's first reaction was to lunge across the table. Restrained as they were, she couldn't even reach over to loosen his collar or feel his pulse. She looked around, her shock fighting rising panic and fury at the empty silence that filled the room.

Thinking past the sight of the body slumped gracelessly ahead of her, she considered the fact that they were doubtlessly being watched. Steed had obviously known he was on the verge of some breakdown, and had fought to the end to keep his torture private.

Phermagott might be a cold-blooded bastard and a master strategist, but despite having ample means, he had not shown himself so far to be an obvious sadist. Surely, her partner must have been given a choice. Therefore, his actions were a deliberate decision to let her distance herself and gain time. An icy calm settled in her. Surely, she could play traitor with the best of them. She would have gladly done it without this charade if it could have spared Steed. Her spine straightened with the eloquent relief of one who has made a choice.

"Warner," she called loudly. "May I borrow your pen?"

-o0o-

From the moment he had left Steed slumped in that small room, Warner knew he had slipped badly. Now, clammy-palmed in the monitoring room at the rogue scientist's side, he could only wait for the sky to fall or the ground to swallow him up. When Steed abruptly collapsed and Emma's back straightened, he felt physically ill with relief.

Phermagott brought him back sharply. "Move along, Warner. We don't have all day."

He entered the room with haste, holding up a familiar, slender object. She grasped it, signed the document with a flourish and pointed out imperiously to the unconscious body across from her. "Could you get him out my sight? We are quite finished with that part of this silly business. Surely, it's time to move quickly now."

Speechless, Warner gaped at the agent, now harmless and thus dismissed, for a moment. Long enough at any rate to miss the swift opening of the pen and the drop in the cylinder of a tiny emitter pulled from a feminine earlobe. With a touch of smugness, he pocketed it when it was handed back to him and snapped the folder tight on its content.

"We won't be long, Mrs. Peel," he assured her with a courtier's small bow.

-o0o-


	33. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots. Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 32

"You know Warner, we were watching your exchange of greetings with Steed, back in that smaller room."

Warner, still clutching the folder with the relief of one who has escaped the worst, walked warily towards the scientist. "Naturally. How else would she have known I was around?"

Phermagott took a single step towards him. "I had turned the sound off so she wouldn't hear you. But I saw your lips." He pressed on, each word frosted with mounting contempt. "You couldn't resist telling him, didn't you? What were you doing, exactly,Warner: taunting him, or tipping him off?"

"Neither, I swear!" Rooted to the floor by the piercing gaze fixed on him, cheeks draining of colour, Warner felt compelled to defend himself. "Well, they parted ways, didn't they? And we have her signature. So, no harm done, really."

The scientist sniffed dismissively. "Steed did not back down, did not break nor bend," he pointed out. "She threw her lot with me because he asked her to. What do you make of that?" He looked away, as if the answer wasn't really worth his attention.

Warner picked his words with exaggerated care. "She means more to him than his own life or career?"

Phermagott rolled his eyes in exasperation. "That man, Warner, is a consummate professional. Let's hope for both your sake that Willis has a better insight in his working mind that you do."

They watched together while two security guards carried away Steed's inert body. "Get him tied back," barked the scientist. "I will have the lorry called immediately... Bring along the antidote," he reminded Warner, "but don't administer it until Willis has taken delivery of him."

Emma Peel had sat back at the table. Arms crossed, her chair facing away from the door, she was staring at something she alone could see, above the empty seat facing her. She had, admired Phermagott, a very eloquent back. He gestured curtly to an assistant. The cuff, loosened from her ankle, fell down with a dull thud.

The scientist, moving forward, offered her a courteous arm. "We seem to have found some common ground, after all."

"No more waste of time, Doctor," she warned as she rose. "I may have lost patience with Steed, but there was really no need to make him suffer through this."

He raised the other hand in a placating gesture. "I assure you, any discomfort was short-lived. It's worse when one fights the treatment as hard as he did, but its effectiveness lies largely in the effect of disorientation, and the panic that generally follows. There aren't lasting consequences on waking up."

"Waking up, " she snorted haughtily, "will hardly be a relief under the circumstances."

"A rather unfortunate aspect of his trade", admitted the scientist. "Personally, I could never swear loyalty to anyone but yours truly."

She allowed herself a small nod. "It's a relief, I supposed, to hear someone around here has the mettle of a survivor. Where does this leave us, Doctor? I imagine that our time here is running out."

"Quite." He was pulling past her, heading down a corridor, his his stride lengthened by a determination not to be distracted. Emma Peel fell back in step with him and smoothly hooked back her arm under his own.

Phermagott checked a surging feeling of pride. There was little point in questioning motives just now. Should the lovely Mrs. Peel prove difficult, one of his contacts could still turn a quick profit by trading on her high reputation before her lack of cooperation became common knowledge. But if she admitted that she had met her match and could be induced into a cooperative mood…

His thoughts were racing back and forth. Steed's choice was rather unexpected but it simplified matters. The man would have been flagged automatically as a national security risk had they gone to ground with him. Definitely excess baggage. Warner and his controller, self-deceiving fools that they were, were certainly welcome to handle him at their own risks.

Not that Phermagott felt he owed any favour to the head of Special Branch. A blasted obsession which had caused more trouble than this entire venture was worth, and the destruction of some inconvenient evidence: that about summed up Willis' contribution. Still, keeping one's end of the bargain in the matter of John Steed would maintain the illusion of their agreement for a few crucial hours. Which brought him back to the issue of Warner's rapidly shrinking usefulness. The rogue scientist had no doubt that Special Branch could handle the matter within its mandate. But the risk that the double agent might lead his controller to them prematurely and help thwart their escape was not a chance he cared to take.

"You will excuse me a moment, Mrs. Peel. I have some calls to make." Fingers snapped and a nearby guard loomed closer. "Take our guest back to her room, downstairs."

-o0o-

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Potter called himself nine kinds of fools and roundly cursed the entire technical staff for good measure. MacKay's transport by Essex' finest to a safe house for debriefing had taken place smoothly. Three hours, a shower and a quick change of clothes later, Potter had gallantly shown up to drive her home.

And now, moments after realizing that their current tail wasn't of the friendly kind, his vehicle had acquired some new aeration holes. The tracing bug, still mounted under the dashboard, had warned Steed of his approach but it had also made it child's play for Phermagott's mob to trail him. As soon as the clusters of council houses had given way to countryside, his pursuers had moved in for the kill. The quick-thinking MacKay had flattened herself to the floor, but that wasn't going to deter villains from using her driver or the tyres as target practice.

Potter swerved around a road corner, mentally reviewing his fast-dwindling list of evasive maneuvers when providence smiled unexpectedly from beyond the curve. Past the approaching layby, a lumbering loader lorry was greedily swallowing the road ahead of them. The agent pressed his foot resolutely to the floor, definitely glad that his passenger's nose was pressed to the floor. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. There had to be better ways, he thought fleetingly, to impress a young lady.


	34. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 33

There was no mistaking the exultant whoop of relief from the front seat, Or the fact that the car engine's surge had subsided to a steadier cruising purr. Still, it seemed proper to inquire first if it was prudent to sit up again. "Never a dull moment around your lot, is there?"

"We aim to please," offered Potter automatically, too intent on figuring out their next move to wonder if some reassurance was expected. He glared suspiciously at the radio-telephone nestled close to the steering wheel. Was it beyond Expefarmax to monitor the frequencies used by the ministry watchers? What he needed now was shelter – long enough to let him rip the device from the car, or a change of vehicle altogether. But if more than one team was trailing them...

"Seeing that you are down there" he resumed conversationally, "could you reach under the dashboard, about twelve inches to my left, and feel around for a smallish square box?"

Without any hesitation MacKay ducked back down. Her little groan of pleasure at the success of her quest sent a tingle up Potter's spine. "Found it."

"Marvellous. Can you rid us of it?" Holding his gaze to the road, Potter ignored the interesting angles offered by her gymnic contortions. "The glove box," he offered, "might hold something useful."

Indeed, it held a remarkably compact and well-accessorized toolbox. MacKay swiftly selected a pair of pliers and a sturdy screwdriver and dived back down to her task.

The radio-telephone crackled to life. Potter instinctively checked his rearview mirror. Nobody in sight behind them... Unconsciously hunching over the steering wheel, he raised the microphone to his lips: "Potter here."

"You are recalled to base. I am told that your pet, the Siberian sable, is on the prowl."

Potter rolled his eyes. "Listen. I have a civilian aboard and I just lost a pair of thugs to a brush with an eight-wheel lorry. I don't fancy running right back into their arms or into another one of their mates just yet."

The answer was predictably short of sympathy. "Mother's direct orders, Potter. You are the only one to have clapped eyes on the fellow, and you are to stay on his tail if he moves. The good news: we were also tracking you, and are closing in. Abandon vehicle as soon as you can and huddle nearby. We are approximately fifteen minutes away from your current location."

Potter turned his head. His passenger had yanked out the emitter and, in a few well-placed blows, crushed it on the floor. From the corner of his eye, he saw a palmful of glass shards, cut wires and twisted resistors being raised to the open window and scattered to the wind.

Almost instantly, the radio-telephone burst into screech-like chatter. "Potter, we just lost your signal. Go to earth now. Repeat..."

Docilely, the agent slowed down further and turned into the next break in the hedgerow. He brought the car into a well controlled skid before cutting the ignition. "Shouldn't make it too hard for them to find us," he explained to his passenger. His right hand reached into his blazer for his holstered Browning. In a few strides he circled the vehicle and pulled her door wide, his left hand open in a mute invitation.

The young woman jumped out of the car, her right fist tightened around a screwdriver. "Well, let's not make it easy either," she said simply.

-o0o-

Potter's hearing strained at every passing vehicle, attuned to any change of speed at their approach, all the while remaining deliberately hidden deep in the dense, prickly foliage. Taking her cue from his alert caution, MacKay remained crouched. "What if others are... waiting for me at home?" she asked, her voice low.

Potter answered evenly, in the same subdued tone. "That would rather play into our hands. Your home has been under surveillance." The young man was uncomfortably aware that any sense she could make of the recent events would fire an unsettling train of thoughts.

Nobody at the debriefing, she realized now, had gone into the details of what might await her once she left the safe house. Reaction was setting in, anger and fear burning inside her like the glowing end of a fuse. "And my parents?"

"Moved to a decent hotel at Her Majesty's expense for a few days," the agent explained. "We collected them soon after you agreed to leave with Steed for Expefarmax. You will be able to call them as soon as we get you to safety."

"So," she pointed out, "you weren't exactly taking me home."

"Er, not just yet," Potter admitted, leaning slightly forward to catch the sound of vehicles cruising past. Was that last one slowing down again, after passing them?

"And the shooting, back there. Were you expecting that?"

Nice interrogation technique, he admired bleakly. "No, miss." He looked squarely at her, trying to keep his own blood from hammering in his ears. "That should never have happened. The mistake was mine."

Her blank stare was the only answer he deserved. His gut tightened at the thought of losing her over half-truths. She was probably a heartbeat away from hysteria, and for good reasons.

A vehicle was approaching at low speed, carefully surveying the roadside. Potter gestured at MacKay to lie low and, craning his neck back towards the road, peered through the shrubbery. A moment later, he resolutely shouldered his way out of the hedge and waved down the nearing ministry van.

She watched his trim figure open the door and fold itself onto the front seat, next to the grim-faced driver. Almost in the same instant, two other agents burst out of the back doors. Speechless and shivering, MacKay was plucked from the hedge and, sheltered by human shields, escorted safely inside the vehicle.

-o0o-

Someone must have slipped her a sedative because her only recollection of their next stop were fractured images. Gallons of tea were being wheeled around on a trolley, and someone wrapped a blanket around her shoulders before leading her to a cot. Warmed at last, she should have sunk into slumber but her mind was still flashing with disjointed sounds and visions of the last hours. A game of Scrabble had been brought out. Everyone present pretended to play. Anyone could see that they all cheated outrageously. At no point did they leave her alone. Their voices grew dim as if through a cottony fog, but she was grateful for their presence.

Next to Potter, a technician checked his readings again. "Well, well. When it rains it pours. Fancy catching three birds with one stone?"

"Spare me the riddles. What have you got?"

"According to our bearings and Mother's second sight, your Siberian is now lying in ambush. And, heading his way across fields, Expefarmax' favourite delivery boy is sailing with two blips in his lorry box. We're asked to take you to the reunion."

-o0o-

Warner checked his watch nervously. Why on earth should the lorry come to a halt? They couldn't possibly be in London yet.

The loading door slid open. The box was flooded with late-morning sunlight and the wet scents of country fields. Warner half-rose from his seat. His eyes briefly registered a silhouette and the glint of metal before a silenced shot took his breath away. Disbelieving, the civil servant raised a hand to his chest and took a stumbling step sideways.

The assassin jumped nimbly into the lorry box. Barely sparing a glance at the body lying slack on the nearby stretcher, he took aim and fired again. The self-indulgence of watching Warner's fall was a mistake, acknowledged in a heartbeat. Out of nowhere, a compact body barrelled hard into his side. The bite of coarse rope against his throat stole his breath and kept him off balance. Joined as one, two bodies tumbled irresistibly out of the lorry.

Curled in a protective crouch around the corner of the vehicle, the lorry driver followed the arc of their fall, his right fist gripped around the reassuring weight of a tyre iron. Two men spilled to the ground in a furious tangle, each intent on getting purchase on the rifle trapped between them. The driver balanced his makeshift weapon from one hand to another and, with a dramatic pause, brought it down. The struggle died instantly at his feet.

He exhaled a low whistle as he considered the bodies entwined in a graceless sprawl. "Nothing like warnin' a bloke, guv..."

Half-winded and still dazed, Steed's eyelids fluttered at the familiar voice. With some effort, the smaller man rolled over the two bodies, pulling them partly free from their awkward embrace. He stepped back, taking in the bruised features and the food- and sweat-stained shirt. "You aren't looking so posh today, if you don't mind me saying so."

Head thrown back, his hands still knotted around the gunman's neck, Steed winked faintly. "And I am in your debt for that."

Circulation was rapidly returning sensation to his mangled wrists, the burning exacerbated by the drug who was still playing havoc on his senses. He forced his hands to relax and rolled over to the coolness of the trampled grass. An attempt to rise to his knees confirmed that his balance was still untrustworthy. He collapsed back. "Actually, I'd be much obliged if you granted me another small favor..."

Agape at this unexpected display of distress, the driver nodded warily, thinking aside that he had done quite enough for England in a day.

"The other chap," ground out Steed. "In the lorry. Could you possibly search him? There should be a small bottle in one of the pockets. And a syringe, perhaps in some kind of small case… "

Noticing finally the tremors running down Steed's frame, the smaller man's expression lit up with understanding. "Some kinda medicine, innit?" He climbed back in the lorry box and started patting Warner's slumped corpse.

Steed winced approvingly. "There's a sharp fellow… When you find it, get someone to inject me. If it's not too much trouble, naturally."

Even as his palm closed around the vial, Steed's ratty guardian angel whipped his head round. The sound of tyres was screeching to a halt nearby. Fiercely scowling, Potter burst out of the van, his Browning held two-handedly.

Hunched against the back wheel of the lorry, all energies spent, Steed felt his senses dissolve into uncomplicated pain and pitched once more into darkness.


	35. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 34

Potter's expression darkened instantly at the sight of the sealed hypodermic syringe and the vial. "And just what were you about to do with these?"

"He asked for them," protested the driver, easily reading the other's man thoughts. "Before passing out again. I swear..." Handing over the small objects, he added emphatically, "I sure won't do it meself... Is 'e diabetic or somefin' ?"

The younger agent knelt by Steed and turned him on his side. Undoing the cuff of a soiled sleeve, he exposed a chafed, blood-smudged wrist. His fingers probed lightly, moving as if on their own. The pulse was a tad fast but reassuringly strong... Potter's thumb stroked lightly across the clammy brow and gently drew up an eyelid. He froze a moment at the thinness of grey rimming the oversized pupils.

_Hospital or not?_

Potter looked over his shoulder to the ministry van where two agents were watching him. One colleague, ready to give him back-up, had assesssed the scene played out over Steed and re-holstered his own firearm. The other, a technician, was clearly awaiting some directions.

"First-aid gear and the bug sweeper" announced Potter. "And ring us a medic." The lorry driver was still looking at him expectantly. As in response, the agent's gaze dropped to the syringe and vial lying next to Steed on the damp grass. Instructions were boldly printed on the labeled vial, nearly taunting in their simplicity. Potter took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, aware of the first-aid kit softly dropped next to him. Injecting one's partner with an unknown drug wasn't exactly a contingency covered in field training.

_What would he want me to do?_

Praying inwardly that he would not regret his decision, Potter rolled up the stained sleeve further up and reached for the vial. He silently thanked heavens that the muscular forearm, bared and slack across his lap, offered him an easy vein. The sting of disinfectant tickled his nose as he swabbed the skin with an antiseptic pad. Competently, he filled the syringe to the line thickly inked across its graduated glass body. His jaw tightened unconsciously when the needle pierced the skin. Sweat beaded on his brow as the plunger slid steadily home.

Meanwhile, the lorry driver had brought out a coarse blanket and pillowed it under the dark head with unexpected gentleness. Affecting to busy himself with the lighting of a cigarette, he started to pace the length of his vehicle. Outwardly absorbed with the task of cleaning and bandaging Steed's wrists, Potter didn't miss the signs of his growing agitation. "You'd rather be on your way, eh? Give us a moment longer."

As if on cue, a stirring of limbs got their full attention.

The scent of crushed grass, the scratchy feel of wool bunched under the nape of his neck, the sensation of open air... The world was growing solid and real again under Steed. The younger agent leaned over, his voice hoarse with more than a shade of relief. "Back to the land of the living, are we, old chap?"

Thankful for a heart that was no longer trying to pound its way out of his chest, Steed latched onto the voice as he fought his way back to full consciousness. His hand rose automatically to his left temple while he felt himself being helped to a sitting position. Familiar eyes, clearly worried, bore into his.

"We read two signals while following you, Steed... If Mrs. Peel isn't with you, who's now carrying the second bug?"

Steed's brow furrowed as the meaning of Potter`s words sank in.

Meanwhile, Potter had grasped the electronic sweeper offered by the other ministry agent. He bounced to his feet, impatient to set about the task of scanning the content of the lorry.

"How long?" Steed's commanding tone stopped him in his tracks. At the sight of Potter's widening eyes, he elaborated. "How long was I unconscious?"

"No more than 10 minutes, I should think."

Feeling steadier which each breath, Steed cautiously drew himself up. He took seom shuffling steps and, over Potter's protest, lifted himself clumsily into the lorry box. The ministry technician, automatically taking charge of cleaning up the scene, had hoisted back the gunman's corpse and laid it out onto the stretcher Steed had himself recently occupied.

Steed leaned over and looked consideringly at the assassin`s features. Something niggled vaguely at his memory, a fleeting impression. He pushed the thought aside. This was no time to waste over the dead.

Inches away and outwardly all business over Warner's body, Potter slowly released a breath of relief at Steed's loss of interest. He suddenly straightened up, two fingers holding a slender silver cylinder extracted from one of Warner's jacket's pockets. Steed's eyes narrowed in recognition. The sweeper's hum had risen to a high pitch. Potter nodded in grim silence. They watched as he gingerly unscrewed the pen's body and tipped it to let the earring fall in his palm. The technician was already at his side, a bag open to receive the objects. It would be promptly tagged and set aside for forensics.

The sight of the pen had stirred in Steed a call to action. Sweeping aside residual aches, his mind was now setting on the only possible course.

"Potter", he announced with the steely civility reserved for unarguable decisions, "you shall board the lorry and convey my regrets to its reception committee. I'm borrowing your team and returning to Expefarmax."

And at that, he leaned into the door and jumped back to the ground. His landing was rather heavier than he might have wished but it confirmed gratifyingly the return of control of his limbs.

"Steed", protested Potter with genuine alarm, "you are in no condition to face those thugs." Heedless at first of the sharp gaze raised back at him, the junior agent leaned out the door to better argue. "For one thing, this is basically a communication support team..."

Under Steed's deepening glare, Potter's last words tumbled out as if drawn by the sheer force of the other man's will. "...and, of course, the lads can call for backup on the way."

Steed brightened fractionally. "Good thinking, Potter. You might need the help. Willis will be at the other end of this. He'll likely be disappointed, so do watch your step." He leaned a moment against the door frame. "And ask Mother to save me a seat at his interrogation."

It seemed a long silence but Potter relented and closed shut the lorry box on his bedraggled partner. Steed walked forward and signaled to the lorry driver that he should take to the road. A bit stiffly, he moved to join the rest of the team in the ministry van. Unquestioningly, the technician fell in step behind him.

The ministry driver wrinkled his nose incredulously when the rumpled agent appropriated the front seat with nonchalant authority. "Ah well," Steed bowed in acknowledgment. "I apologize for my choice of aftershave and the change of travel plans, gentlemen, but we must absolutely turn around. Back to the farm, in fact."

A voice rose from the back seat. "And what about Potter?"

Steed shifted in his seat to accommodate a set of bruises and settled himself more comfortably. "Be kind enough to let Mother know that my partner is on his way to drop a couple of parcels on Willis' door step. Assistance with their unwrapping will be welcome."

"And us?" muttered the driver.

The sidelong glance from Steed was designed to quell resistance but his tone was mild. "I don't know about you, but I could definitely use a spot of breakfast." A thermos of tea and sandwiches appeared from the back seat. Gratefully, he tucked in.

-o0o-

Most of the staff had received a pre-registered, early morning phone call instructing them no to show up. Throughout the Expefarmax complex, a skeleton crew was now moving with the precision of a well-rehearsed routine. Throughout the well-tended outdoor plots and in the greenhouses, lethal bursts of ultra-violet radiation were sterilizing rows of carefully nurtured seedlings and dishes of germ cultures. Elsewhere, sophisticated instruments were rendered useless by the removal and destruction of critical components. It was a pity to contemplate the destruction of so many strains of cultivars and equipment, but everyone had been reminded regularly that this day would come. As an employer, Phermagott had kept his word scrupulously and paid generously. A substantial reward had been promised for winding down their operations, and everyone present got on with the task.

In his office, Phermagott congratulated himself on his foresight. Each specialist hired had only ever been trained and left to work on a small part of the entire process. Without the benefit of his own, wholly original DNA amplification techniques, the crops left standing across the kingdom would not reveal their secrets for years. Let the fields and his associates fall in the hands of the British authorities and scientists. They would go broke before finding the key to his future wealth. Protecting the pecuniary value of his last two years of research was the finest part of his plan.

The well-oiled door of the Chubb safe opened smoothly, revealing three passports, a make-up kit, currency and a handgun. He distributed the items between his wallet and various pockets of his suit. His hand hovered over his desk. A last call would ensure transport to a small airport and, from there, to a port where he had secured the services of smugglers to slip out of the country. He held back, aware of the euphoria rising in him. There was one act of destruction he intended to leave to the end, more as a distraction than a precaution.

The warren of subterranean rooms and galleries concealed powerful explosive charges. Setting them off would cause the collapse of the above-ground structures. He could trigger them from his car within a half-mile radius, as long as he interrupted first the powerful source of interference used to shield his operations from the Ministry's surveillance. This he wanted to do himself, and it required a last trip to the control room.

In the semi-darkness, the technician was going through a precisely outlined list of operations. Above him, the bank of monitors was already lifeless. Phermagott looked for the correct switch and flipped it. Automatically, his stare was drawn to the tracking screen: the signal from Mrs. Peel's emitter should have instantly become visible. He blinked once, twice, at the featureless screen. He flipped the switch back on and off again. Still no signal. Frowning, he turned to the technician. "Have you turned off the tracking system?"

"No, sir, that's further down the list." The young man waved tellingly at the rows of pilot lights and buttons. "I have my hands full, keeping an eye on these, and following the sequence you requested..."

Phermagott gritted his teeth. "Well, our guest, Mrs. Peel, has been wearing an emitter. Am I mistaken or is it not being tracked at the moment?"

The technician set aside his list. He repeated exactly Phermagott's actions and agreed that no signal was being detected. The head scientist winced but held his tongue. Striding out of the room, he called to one of the security guards still patrolling the length of the hallway. "Draw your gun", he gritted, doing the same. Emma Peel might have merely discarded the bug with the thought of evading the Ministry's watchers, but there was no sense in being careless.

Together, they reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the hallway to her room. His heart skipped a beat at the sight of the emptiness ahead of them. Someone should have stood station at her door. He paced briskly up to the door, found it unlocked and, without opening it, nodded curtly to his bodyguard that he should go in.

The small room was deserted but for the Expefarmax employee sprawled unconscious on the white tiles. A quick frisking revealed that he was also weaponless. Phermagott eyed with distaste the thumb-sized bruises purpling the neck of the man. There was no time to waste hunting or subduing a hostile hostage. He coldly assessed her options. Without means of reaching the Ministry, Mrs. Peel couldn't get out unless she coerced someone into letting her past the security system. His staff could not bypass it without alerting the security personnel. No alarm had been sounded, which left concealment in the faint hope that the grounds would eventually be stormed by Ministry agents or even a Special Branch squad led by an irate Willis.

"Upstairs," he told the guard urgently, turning on his heels. "Let's seal up the basement and be done."

Aware that the floor was about to become a death trap, the guard did not miss a beat. Lifting his colleague in a fireman's carry, he hurried to catch up to his superior.

-o0o-


	36. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I have just borrowed them for my - and your - pleasure.

FATAL HARVEST

Steed shows off his roots.

Emma does some weeding.

Chapter 35

If he had kept her by his side, she might have played along. But the vision of Steed, unconscious and on his way to an uncertain fate, was roiling in her mind, more vivid with each step as she was marched downstairs. As the door opened, a deeper instinct prevailed. A swift roundhouse kick and pressure judiciously applied to the carotid neutralized her escort almost before she could consider the consequences of her actions.

She had retreated to a far corner of the subterranean warren of rooms, easily escaping detection and scouting potential escape routes. She was suddenly aware of the walls vibrating with a mournful, syncopated hum, a signal clearly intended to be heard or felt from every corner of the premises. Emma's pulse picked up. Under the circumstances, the reasons for such an alarm did not require elaboration. All the doors she could find were locked but she had run into similar situations before with Steed. There were ventilation ducts around that should nicely lead out of the basement and directly to the outdoors. It was simply a question of thinking logically and not wasting time.

Unexpectedly, the duct ended in a glass-panelled greenhouse. The door to the outside world, shockingly sunny and tantalizing close, was stubbornly locked. She grabbed and swung a chair which bounced harmlessly against a glass panel. Willing herself to remain cool, she looked around for something, anything, heavier.

-o0o-

Phermagott reached the top of the stairs, fished inside his suit for a small key ring that he handed to the guard carrying his colleague behind him. "You don't have the luxury of waiting for an ambulance. Have someone check that the lady's Elan is well fueled, and get him to the hospital. I will drive myself to town." He went to the lobby and watched his personnel board the flottila of Experfarmax cars. Before heading out himself, he took the time to congratulate his security coordinator on a job well done, and reminded him to leave without fail in the next ten minutes. "All the ground floor doors are programmed to be locked at that time. You won't be able to override the system after the scheduled shutdown."

-o0o-

Restored by the improvised breakfast, Steed stared grimly at the road ahead. On the radio-telephone, the chatter of two radio operators in the helicopters hovering overhead was describing for his benefit the flow of vehicles leaving Expefarmax. A dozen identical company cars had arrived that morning, they explained, and was now leaving the parking lot in two opposite directions, like a choreographed procession. Steed bit down an oath. The head of Expefarmax could teach some generals one thing or two.

Mother, listening on, was all scowl. Why did that girl have to rid herself of the bug?

"And now the Lotus Elan is on the move," reported a watcher resignedly. "Which vehicle do we follow, sir?"

Mother's answers had fallen like a verdict without appeal. "Roadblocks are out of the question. If Mrs. Peel is accompanying Phermagott of her own will, we can't stop them. I have a SAS helicopter team moving towards you, Steed. It's up to you to spot the right car."

"Permission to intercept?"

Mother snorted. Once chance in two, unarmed... As plans went, this one was the worst –unless you considered the alternatives. "Be my guest. If we spoil this, Willis will throw the book at us all."

-o0o-

Steed turned to the driver. "I see only one way to do this properly. Run us into the ditch at your earliest convenience."

Obediently, the ministry van drifted across the he lane and slowed to a stop in a position suggesting the utter ineptness of its driver. With a wince, Steed extricated himself from the listing vehicle and patted down his soiled clothes. "As luck would have it, I am rather dressed for this part."

A car was approaching. He moved resolutely into its path.

The driver, and the one after him, never slowed down, nearly clipping him in their determination to follow orders to the letter. Steed spun back, standing his ground, clinging to the faint hope that Phermagott and Mrs. Peel hadn't been aboard, meekly crouched against the floor. Nursing dark visions of Willis in the gallows, he spotted the third car.

-o0o-

This was plainly and utterly preposterous. Phermagott watched incredulously as the lone figure, rumpled and absurdly waving across the road, grew into the very man he had sent away as the price of his freedom.

Far above, the drone of a helicoper hinted omninously that this might not be a coincidence. Turning around wasn't an option, the scientist decided at once. It could only draw attention to his vehicle among the others. Run down the fool? Shoot him? The result would be the same. Once Steed identified him, there would be no escape.

-o0o-

Motionless, Steed stared down the slowing vehicle, the look on his face saying he might tear someone limb from limb. Probably calculated but Phermagott, at once fascinated and wary, wasn't taking any chance. His Walther swung up as he came to a full stop.

"One gesture, Major," he spoke warningly over the partly lowered door window, "one misguided move, and you will bury her."

Steed gave a dismissive shrug but stopped at once, hands and arms opening wide to show that he was weaponless. "Where is she?" Despite the conciliatory body language, his tone held no hint of panic, only an unshakable, steely determination. Another vehicle whizzed past them, barely slowing down.

Head tilted, Phermagott answered evenly. "I went to fetch her before leaving. She had knocked out her bodyguard and gone into hiding." The scientist paused and raised a small metallic box to his chest. "We signalled a general evacuation. She might have left in time. Or not. Are you a betting man, Major?"

His fingers moved teasingly, stroking a button on the small device, the bargain made sickeningly clear. Rooted to the ground, Steed felt the blood drain from his face. Without the means to locate her whereabouts, Mrs. Peel was a hostage as surely as if the Walther had been held to her temple.

The scientist, watching him, read instant understanding, then surrender, in the clench and release of the jaw muscles. The divided loyalties of his opponent were his best chance of slipping out of the country.

Steed retreated and called out to the van, infusing his words with all the authority he could summon. "Tell the helicopter to back off. Let all cars go on and stand down all aerial surveillance." He turned around, raised a hand and waved on the scientist. Phermagott's company car purred contentedly into acceleration.

Mother met Steed's request, duly repeated by the technician, with an eloquent expression of distate. Across from her superior and the Napoleonic desk, Rhonda raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Had their best agent taken leave of his senses? They needed to get their claws into Phermagott as badly as Willis. One without the other might not yield an inch under interrogation.

Back to the van, Steed had taken the microphone himself, his tone brisk. "The fugitive is armed, travels alone and carries a detonator. Send a bomb squad to Expefarmax. We will be going back there, to warn off anyone from wandering in harm's way."

"Proceed as you see best, Steed," answered Mother smoothly, apparently satisfied both with the terse report and what was left unsaid. His chair swivelled with majestic determination. "Get me the airborne SAS team on the other frequency. It's about time we collect this vermin, armed or not."

-o0o-

Oblivious to the caravan of identical company vehicles now streaming past them, Steed stared straight ahead, harboring no illusion about Mother's next move, while his team pushed and hauled the van back to the road. They boarded it in unbroken silence. Years of discipline and diplomacy had conditioned him to deal with the subordination of his associate's fate to the ministry's objectives: one might as well ask the sun to reverse course.

To his relief, the aerial pursuit unfolded far enough behind them that they weren't aware of any of it. Like a deafening, bulbous raptor, the helicopter overtook his quarry and hovered low above the road just ahead of Phermagott's vehicle. The Walther rose again, a futile gesture. A front tyre blew out and the windshield cracked as the car swerved off the road and came to a drunken halt. Several shots rang out nearly simultaneously, drowning the shock of being hit. The scientist fell sideways, writhing on his seat, an elbow coming down hard on the device laid down by his side.

-o0o-

Hundreds of meters ahead of the Ministry vehicle, a plume of dust rose in the air, smudging their view of the fields. The driver's grip tightened on the wheel. "What the devil...?"

Steed's fists clenched, involuntarily. "Faster," was all he said.

-o0o-

An agent in his Majesty's Service isn't, as a rule, given to introspection. Situations are to be analyzed and their risks anticipated, but the consequences of following orders must be dealt with ruthlessly. The mind may deal with this in unexpected ways. At debriefing, Steed admitted having no recollection whatsoever of their van swinging to the gate, of his first glimpse of the tarmacked drive and the empty parking lot littered with debris from the former state-of-the-art facilities. Surely someone said something about the risk of noxious fumes, probably even pressed a mask into his hand. Truthfully, not much of it mattered once he uncoiled like a spring from his seat. His colleagues described to the rest of the ministry the burst of speed and the jump that launched him irresistibly over the gate. Ordered to stay put by Mother, their last sight of Steed was of him running at full speed for the shattered structures.

For the most part the sprawling buildings had neatly collapsed, a devastating testimony to the meticulous planning of their designer. The doors of the main lobby were now utterly inaccessible under the twisted frame of the structure. Steed realized at once the futility of looking for a way inside, spun on his heels and changed direction, arcing widely around and behind the complex and sprinting along yards of neatly fenced fields. His lungs were starting to burn when he spotted Emma Peel, well ahead of him, rising to her knees from the ground. Behind her, the glittering, glass-strewn remains of a greenhouse annex were falling down in a cascade of tinkling and creaking sounds.

Cheeks flushed, mouth slightly open, she stood by herself, dusty and ghost-like, and for all that, a heartstoppingly beautiful sight. He barely slowed as he shortened his stride, ignoring a chorus of protesting muscles and the aching feeling of having risked something he didn't want to lose. There was still a hint of wildness in her eyes, a half-stunned stare that went through him like a knife as he moved to close the gap between them.

He gathered her to himself, felt their hearts pounding as one. There was nothing to say, really, because nothing mattered at the moment that she didn't already know. There was still Mother to face. And Willis, who might take them all down.

"We could both use freshening up, Mrs. Peel," said Steed gently, releasing her with reluctance. He cast an arm around her shoulders and turned her around gently for the walk back towards the deserted parking lot. "That lovely little Elan of yours, I am sorry to say, appears to be missing. But if you will come this way, I have transportation waiting for us."

"And you?"

"We are leaving together," he answered, intentionnally misunderstanding her. Aware that she was automatically taking inventory, he pressed the pace to show his good form and raised a bandaged wrist as further evidence that he had been looked after.

"Nothing but the best care. Potter really rates better as a field nurse than as a secretary."

She knew better than trust him on the subject. But nothing seemed seriously amiss about him, beyond a blatant collection of bruises and contusions and clothes that clearly would never be worn again.

"Warner's pen?..." she ventured.

"Bagged by forensics, thanks to you, and well before Warner or I reached Willis."

She could tell that he wasn't going to elaborate even if she pressed on. "I thought it was worth saving." The words were too smug to be an apology.

Steed shook his head in mock surrender. "I don't know which terrifies me more, Mrs. Peel, your intuition or your logic."

His tone was faintly amused, the concealed depths intact. They finally reached the gate, where he gallantly offered her a hand hold. "Nobody left us a key, I am afraid."

Beyond the gate, the ministry van was waiting for them, his occupants keeping an ear on the radio traffic directed by Mother. Steed opened the back door. A crew member jumped out and informed them that he was staying behind, to lead around the bomb squad and any other specialists the ministry might care to send. He offered his seat to Emma Peel, apologizing for an unforeseen shortage of tea and sandwiches.


End file.
